


Whatever Comes After

by AFrenchFanWriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Albert is a gem, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Morgan Deserves Better, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Arthur Morgan's Journal, Arthur is sick alright, Arthur's POV, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles is a saint™, Feelings, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Gay Albert Mason, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, John is a good bro, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur, Sassy Sadie, Slow Burn, Spoilers, because I don't know what TB is, but he doesn't have TB, sue me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 51,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFrenchFanWriter/pseuds/AFrenchFanWriter
Summary: What if Arthur Morgan deserved better? What if, during his journey, he had met Albert Mason a few times more? And what if the terrible ending that was expected for him had turned into something else entirely?This is the retelling of (some of) the events of Red Dead Redemption 2, from the Gilded Cage to whatever comes after.
Relationships: Albert Mason & Arthur Morgan, Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, Mary-Beth Gaskill & Arthur Morgan, Sadie Adler & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 90
Kudos: 107





	1. Dressed to Kill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy!  
> I'm very excited to share with you the first chapter of what is supposed to be a long ride. Hopefully, I'll keep to my schedule... And I hope you will enjoy it!  
> I must clarify that I'm French, and this story has not been beta read, so if you spot any errors or weird formulations… 1/ I’m sorry 2/ Don’t hesitate to point them out to me!

[Arthur’s journal]

_‘Saw Albert again. Bored of fighting animals, he tried to fight gravity. Again, he somehow survived. I hope he will now retire from a life even more idiotic and dangerous than mine.’_

***

They were really doing this. Arthur barely suppressed a laugh as he walked toward the stage coach that was waiting to take them to the mayor’s party. There stood Hosea, Dutch and Bill, all dressed up and waxed and polished. Arthur had felt uncomfortable in his too tight suit, but as soon as he saw Bill, he relaxed a bit. If this dumbass of ex-soldier could pull this off, then so could he.

The encounter with Angelo Bronte went down as smoothly as possible, Arthur repressing his urge to punch the disgusting bastard in the nose for mocking them so openly. He then tried to mingle with the crowd, albeit reluctantly. He didn’t like pretending to be someone he was not. One thing that Dutch and Hosea didn’t succeed in transmitting to him. He went discreetly from one small group to the other, smiling tightly and trying to be as charming and casual as possible.

He was politely pouring champagne for some ladies when he heard a very familiar voice a few feet away: ‘… but you should have seen those eagles! Wonderful creatures, looking at us from afar, flying majestically in the clear blue sky… I just wish I could fly like them sometimes!’

Arthur smiled to himself as he shook his head and approached the audience of Albert Mason, completely enthralled in his speech and gesticulating as always.

‘It would probably be safer for you if you did fly, Mr. Mason,’ he said in a loud voice.

The crowd turned to him as the photographer clutched at his heart.

‘Oh, Mr. Morgan, I didn’t see you there!’

He then gestured at Arthur with a flourish.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the man who have saved my poor skin time and time again!’

Arthur felt suddenly embarrassed as they all tried to shake his hand. No doubt Mason would have embellished the stories of their adventures. He felt even more embarrassed when people went away, leaving him alone with the photographer, who looked at him appreciatively from head to toe.

‘This,’ remarked Albert with a wave of his hand, ‘is very different from your usual clothes, but it does suit you as well.’

‘Thank you, Mr. Mason,’ he mumbled, feeling awkwardly flattered by the compliment. Since when did he care to look good in a costume? ‘You’re very elegant yourself,’ he added quickly, enjoying the subsequent stretch of the photographer’s smile.

‘Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I do like to dress up once in a while and act like a buffoon around my peers.’

Arthur let out a sincere laugh and poured themselves glasses of champagne.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ he asked as he handed one of them to Mason. ‘I thought you was going home.’

The photographer reached out for the drink, and Arthur quickly dismissed the strange feeling he felt as Albert’s fingers grazed his.

‘I am home,’ Albert answered casually. ‘I live here, in Saint Denis.’

Arthur snorted.

‘I better understand now why you was talking about taking pictures of ‘grumpy house frau or pompous middle class burgher’.’

Albert cast an indecipherable glance in his direction, then smiled again.

‘Actually, I’m here tonight on the mayor’s invitation.’

‘Oh, really? I didn’t know you was famous.’

‘Well, I’m not as famous as you,’ the photographer answered matter-of-factly, and Arthur almost choked on his drink, ‘but I do what is necessary to promote my work,’ he went on, gently patting the back of the outlaw.

‘I didn’t know you knew… who I was,’ Arthur murmured with a frown.

‘Oh, I’m a fool, Mr. Morgan, but I’m not naïve,’ Albert said mischievously.

Arthur just shook his head, feeling embarrassed again.

‘Anyway,’ Albert added, ‘you should be aware that I’m exhibiting at a gallery in Saint Denis, la galerie Laurent. This is why I was invited tonight, to talk about my photographs to all these fine folks.’

Arthur pondered for a moment.

‘Galerie Laurent: isn’t it where Charles Châtenay’s exhibition is, too?’

‘Oh so you know Charles?’ Albert asked with round eyes. ‘He’s quite a character.’

‘That’s one way to put it,’ Arthur agreed wryly.

Albert smiled at him knowingly.

‘And why are _you_ here, Mr. Morgan? Not quite the place I would have expected you to be.’

Arthur scrutinized the photographer. He was always so kind and genuine, and his instincts told him that he could trust the man. Especially now that he knew who he was, and apparently didn’t care. But he had to draw a line somewhere; after all, they didn’t know each other that well.

‘I’m here to talk to the mayor. Some… business to attend to.’

Albert hid the smile to his evasive response behind his glass.

‘Well, if you want to talk to him, he’s over there,’ he said, pointing at a small group of well-dressed men near the fountain, ‘next to Evelyn Miller.’

‘The writer?’

‘The man himself,’ Albert confirmed with an appreciative smile.

‘Someone’s gonna be happy about it,’ Arthur snorted.

The photographer stayed silent and quietly sipped his drink. He seemed content to just be in his company, and, even if the feeling was mutual, for the umpteenth time, Arthur couldn’t help but wonder why.

Finally, Albert looked at him and smiled again.

‘Don’t let me keep you from your business thing, Mr. Morgan. But please, do come to the gallery. That would mean a lot to me if you could see what you have helped me achieve.’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Arthur answered sincerely, almost surprising himself. ‘It was nice seeing you here, Mr. Mason.’

‘Likewise, Mr. Morgan. Good night.’

Arthur watched the photographer walk away, lost in his thoughts. When he focused again, his eyes met Hosea’s, a few feet away, and the old man winked at him. Arthur huffed and went to join the mayor’s group. 

***

[Arthur’s journal]

_‘Met Albert at the mayor’s party. I was the one out of his element this time. Turns out he lives in that depressing city – no wonder he prefers to endanger his life in the wilderness.  
Seeing a friendly face in this place was nice. He asked me to come see his pictures in galerie Laurent. If they are as fine as the one of the wolves, I must find the time to do it.’_


	2. Worth a Thousand Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you think Rockstar should have given us another mission with Albert at the galerie Laurent, for obvious reasons (I mean, he hung the damn portrait!). There, I tried to fix it. Enjoy!

After the terrible shoot-out with the O’Driscolls at Shady Belle, Arthur decided he needed a break from it all. He had seen his fair share of bodies over the years, but he was having a hard time erasing from his mind the awful image of headless Kieran riding toward them.

He helped John dispose of the corpses, changed into more comfortable clothes, mounted Cisco and galloped away from the creepy place. Arthur knew Dutch needed him for the robbery of Saint Denis’ trolley station, but even he deserved some peace, once in a while. Dutch could wait. 

Arthur travelled for an entire day, avoiding Rhodes and up to Emerald Station, before pushing his trusted horse into the Grizzlies, as far as O’Creagh’s Run.

Arthur particularly enjoyed the calm that emanated from this place, between the still water of the lake and the comforting breeze of the wind through the pines. Plus, he had a fond memory of his grizzly bear hunt with Hosea in the area. When they were still thinking they could get back on tracks – unlike today.

It was obvious now that, somewhere along the way, they had derailed. They were moving from one place to another far more often than before, still heading East whereas West would be a better place for the likes of them, and it was as if the Pinkertons, when it was not the O’Driscolls or some bounty hunters, were breathing down their necks. Dutch seemed to completely ignoring it, unlike Hosea; Arthur had seen the worry written all over his face. And poor Kieran…As he rode along the dirt path, Arthur wondered if he could have done something to save him. And if terrible things like that were bound to happen again in the near future. If he was going to be able to protect his family. 

When Arthur arrived, he immediately noticed that the chimney of the small cabin on the shore was smoking, and he steered his mount away from it. He had fled from camp to be alone; he didn’t want to provoke another possible violent encounter, he had enough of it for the day.  
He found a good enough spot to set up camp, up on the hill, and went hunting for a rabbit or two before the sun was completely set behind the mountains. He then proceeded to brush and feed Cisco, who expressed his gratitude with a gentle bump of his head against Arthur’s shoulder. He affectionately patted his horse’s neck before starting a fire. 

As Arthur quietly ate his dinner, listening to the hoot of the owls in the trees nearby, his mind drifted to Albert Mason. He was surprised of how often he thought about the photographer lately, wondering if he had gone back out to take pictures of wild creatures. He suddenly remembered his promise to go see his work at the galerie Laurent, and decided that attending his exhibition would be a nice detour, before going back to the gang and Dutch’s schemes. 

Arthur fell asleep quickly, finally at ease, comforted by the prospect of his visit the next morning.

***

Arthur hid a smirk as he entered the galerie Laurent. The last time he was there, he had taken part in a fight with top hatted men and ended accompanying Charles Châtenay to one of his many lovers’ for a hiding place. Surely, this time, things would be quieter. 

When he entered the room dedicated to Albert’s work, he felt his chest burst with pride. As he had expected it, and contrary to what the photographer was always saying, his pictures were truly gorgeous. They perfectly captured the beauty of the wilderness that Arthur had the chance to witness every day. He was glad he had been able to play a small part in this beautiful display. 

His heart skipped a bit though when his eyes landed on the last picture hung in a corner of the room: it was a portrait of himself, standing up, looking directly into the camera.

He remembered Albert gesticulating and babbling the first time they met, but he never thought the photographer had actually taken a picture of him – less printed it and shown it to everyone. Arthur’s self-esteem was very low, and seeing himself exposed like that was making him very uncomfortable.

However, the more he looked at the picture, the more he felt strangely attracted to it. Arthur realized that if the man looking back at him had been someone else, he would probably have liked it, for the raw honesty that was transpiring from it.

‘This is one of my favorites, too.’

Arthur was so engrossed in his observation that he hadn’t noticed the man that had quietly approached him. Startled, he turned around to Albert Mason, who couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

‘Jesus, Mason.’

‘Well, you now know how it feels’, Albert answered cheekily.

Arthur playfully shoved his shoulder.

‘Your work is wonderful. You’re very talented, Mr. Mason.’

At that, the photographer started to blush, and Arthur grinned. The man was exhibiting in one of the most famous galleries in Saint Denis, and he still couldn’t take a compliment.

‘Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I must say, though, that the subjects make everything better!’

‘Bullshit’, Arthur snorted, as he jerked his head toward the portrait of him on the wall. ‘Are you saying that this ugly mug makes everything better?’

‘I stand by what I said’, Albert replied firmly.

The look he was directing at Arthur was unwavering; but the loaded atmosphere was suddenly cut as a woman exclaimed next to them: ‘Oh my God! Is that _you_ in this picture?’

Arthur nervously scratched the back of his neck.

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

‘And _you_ are the man who took it?’ she asked Albert, who confirmed it with a little bow.

‘I must say, _Monsieur_ , you did a very fine job, for this man is as handsome in your photograph as he is in real life!’

Then, she just walked away, and Albert tried to suppress a laugh as Arthur’s cheeks turned bright red.

‘Well,’ Albert said as he clasped a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, ‘you look like you could use a whiskey. My treat!’

‘Make it a double,’ Arthur grunted as he followed the photographer out of the building.

***

As it turned out, they drank more than one whiskey. After that, they ate a good meal and even joined a poker game. Before drinking again. All the while talking about Albert’s life in Saint Denis, his numerous photography projects, and some harmless stories Arthur agreed to share with him.

The more the night went on, the more Arthur felt captivated by Albert’s long monologues, his contagious joy and the way his eyes crinkled every time he was smiling. And he was smiling at him a lot. 

As they parted ways in the dark street outside the saloon, they were laughing out loud and biding each other goodnight, using their first name. 

Arthur didn’t know how he managed to came back to Shady Belle, considering his advanced drunken state. At least, now he knew that he could trust Cisco to find his way back on his own; and that the photographer was, surprisingly, a solid drinking friend.

Arthur was still sporting a goofy smile on his lips as he collapsed fully clothed on the bed.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Albert laughing, a glass in his hand and his hat pushed on the back of his head]

_‘Finally went to see Albert’s photographs in Saint Denis. We ended up drinking and talking in a saloon way past nightfall. One of the best days I had in a long time. I really liked spending time with him. We talked about anything and – almost – everything for hours, and I didn’t think about what’s going on with the gang once. It felt good. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.’_


	3. Revenge is a Dish Best Never Eaten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess this chapter has been written mostly to indulge my desire to write some Hosea/Arthur before… You know.  
> Enjoy!

Arthur was mechanically chopping wood to replenish Shady Belle’s stock, hoping the dull task would help him forget for a while what happened during the night. He knew Dutch nearly died because of Bronte’s set up at the trolley station, but he was still doubting it had been reason enough to execute him like this. Arthur felt tired, queasy, and the atmosphere of doubt looming over the camp was not helping.

And that damn swamp.

He heard a familiar cough and, when he raised his head, Hosea was looking at him with a soft smile.

‘Hey, Arthur.’

‘Hosea.’

‘Let’s take a walk, shall we?’

Arthur nodded, put down the axe and followed his old friend toward the field behind the mansion.

‘How are things going for you, Arthur?’ Hosea asked casually, casting a glance in his direction.

‘Fine.’

‘Do you find time to enjoy yourself, despite everything else?’

Arthur snorted. He thought about his drinking night with Albert but, since then, ‘enjoying himself’ had been an abstract concept.

As if Hosea was reading his mind, he asked him: ‘What about that friend of yours, the one you were talking to at the mayor’s party?’

Arthur wasn’t surprised Hosea had not forgotten about this scene.

‘His name’s Albert Mason. We’ve met a few times, but things’ve been crazy lately, and I really don’t wanna drag anyone else into our mess.’

Hosea scrutinized his face, then smiled at him and nodded. 

They kept walking for a while, roaming the discarded tobacco field in companionable silence. When they reached a fallen trunk, the old man sat down, and Arthur took a seat next to him, curious to hear what he had to say. He saw Hosea staring straight ahead as he asked him in a careful voice: ‘Arthur… Remember that conversation we had when chasing the bear, a few months ago? About getting out of the life?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t you think about it, sometimes?’

Arthur frowned, eyeing the anxious face of his friend.

‘Why are you asking me this, Hosea?’

‘Well, I… I have a bad feeling about all this.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I feel like I don’t understand Dutch anymore.’

Here it was, again.

Hosea took a deep breath before carrying on: ‘He’s my oldest friend, he’s like a brother to me, you know that. But it’s been harder for me to comprehend his motives, lately. He’s getting more and more elusive, talking about Tahiti and mangoes and whatnot.’

He made an annoyed wave with his hand, then turned his head to finally look into Arthur’s eyes, still on him.

‘John just told me about what he did to Angelo Bronte.’

‘Ah. Bad business…’ Arthur sighed as he shook his head. ‘I’d never seen Dutch kill someone in cold blood before. I wonder what happened to revenge being a fool’s game.’

Hosea slowly nodded.

‘So you do understand what I’m talking about.’

Once again, the old man stared in front of him, and Arthur saw his gaze drift away.

‘I’m worried about him, Arthur. If Dutch loses it, that puts the whole gang in danger. And I’m worried about all of you,’ he added in a whisper.

Arthur’s heart tightened in his chest. He knew his two mentors have been arguing more and more over the past few months; since Blackwater really. His loyalty had always lied with the gang as a whole, and the gap widening between them was tearing him apart.

‘I don’t know what to say, Hosea. You know I trust Dutch.’

‘I know. I’m just asking you to be careful, Arthur.’

When he didn’t answer, Hosea stood up from the trunk, and Arthur imitated him.

‘I’m planning the robbery of Saint Denis’ bank. After that, I just hope Dutch will stop talking about getting more money, and we’ll be able to find a place for us to live.’

‘I hope you’re right, Hosea.’

They started walking back toward the house, when Hosea paused and placed a gentle hand on his arm.

‘One more thing, Arthur. As I said to John once, you know that love is the thing. The only thing. You’re still young. If you ever got the chance to meet someone you truly love, and who loves you back for who you are – not like Miss Gillis – please, seize it. Start a new life with this person. For real, this time. Because I think our time is definitely up.’

Arthur looked into his friend’s eyes, confused. The old man’s tone was nearly desperate.

‘I ain’t leaving the gang, Hosea.’

‘Just think about this, Arthur, please. That’s all I’m asking.’

They got back to camp, and Arthur watched his old friend walking away, his shoulders hunched, as if he was carrying the weight of what was happening to them. He remembered Dutch the previous night, also telling him that love was all they got. He winced as he realized that the three of them had lost the woman they loved under terrible circumstances. But contrary to his mentors, Arthur’s faith in this kind of love was long gone. That was precisely why he had turned Mary down when she asked him a favor for her brother months ago. His family and his friends were the only people that really mattered to him now. 

***

[Arthur’s journal – a side view sketch of Albert fishing]

_‘Hosea is worried about Dutch. So is John. And so am I, I guess.  
But I wanna trust him, trust his judgment. He has always found a way. Reckon he will this time, too.  
Took some time off and went back to Saint Denis, to see Albert. I found the photography studio where he works. He asked me to wait for him until afternoon to get out of the city. I was happy to oblige.  
We went to the Kamassa River and I taught him how to fish – no risky business there.  
I was surprised again to see how patient and nervous he can be at the same time. A man full of contradictions. Probably what’s making him interesting. That, and his love for nature, despite how ruthless it can be.  
I think I’m growing fond of him. I’ll be sad to tell him goodbye when we leave the country.  
Assuming nothing goes wrong with the bank robbery.’ _


	4. Red-Handed

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted Dutch as he entered the bank of Saint Denis, followed by his masked men, ‘this is a hold up. Don’t do nothing stupid.’

People started to scream and scramble backwards. Arthur raised his gun and pointed it at no one in particular. Despite everything, he felt calm; it was the kind of act he had pulled numerous times before. 

However, when his blue eyes met familiar hazel ones, he froze, and time seemed to suddenly slow down.

Albert Mason was staring at him, his face a mix of fear and… disappointment? 

‘D’you know him, cowpoke?’

Micah’s nasty voice brought Arthur back to reality, and he glared at the outlaw who was standing next to him, his small eyes narrowed on the photographer.

‘No, I don’t. Get them all in the backroom.’

Micah, thrilled by the commotion, abruptly put the end of his barrel against Albert’s head.

‘Well if you don’t, maybe we should teach him a lesson, ‘cause of the way he's lookin’ at you.’

It took all of Arthur’s self-control not to shoot Micah on the spot, rage and fear boiling inside him. In a few long strides, he went to reach for Micah’s gun and violently shoved it away.

‘We ain’t got time to play your stupid games!’

He then grabbed Albert by the arm and dragged him into the backroom with the others.

‘Whatever happens’, he whispered as discreetly as possible to the man that he could feel was shaking, ‘do not move from here, understand? We ain’t gonna hurt you.’

He glanced at Albert for any sign of acknowledgment. The photographer only nodded slowly, eyes on the ground. He couldn’t even look at him. His state of hopelessness was a painful sight for Arthur. He desperately wanted Albert to trust him; but he knew that the moment the robbery started, any chance for this had been ruined. 

For show, he shoved the photographer against the wall and leaned over him. While everyone would only see his broad back hiding the manhandled man, Arthur squeezed Albert’s shoulder and murmured: ‘I’m sorry.’

Finally, Albert’s eyes locked with his, and Arthur wished they didn’t. Inside them, he saw the terror he had inspired in many others. Something he wished he would never have seen in the eyes of a friend. The reflection of his true nature.

As Dutch ordered him, he went back to the bank manager and forced him to open up the vault.

While Arthur was taking the money inside, he couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the other room. Of course Albert Mason would be at the bank at the same moment they would rob it. It was his fate: the fate of a bad man. He was a killer, a thief, an outlaw; he wondered how he had allowed himself to think that he could befriend someone who was his entire opposite, who did not belong in his world. Arthur only wished nothing would happen to him, because of him. That was usually the fate of the ones he cared for. 

***

After the Pinkertons and the cops showed up, all hell broke loose. 

Hosea and Lenny got killed, John and Abigail got caught, Charles disappeared and Arthur ended up on a stupid boat with Dutch, Bill, Javier and Micah. 

Then, they almost drowned and were cast ashore on an island at war. 

They barely made it out of Guarma alive, and from this moment on, Arthur started to saw them. The little signs that were indicating that, slowly but surely, Dutch was losing his mind.

***

When his feet finally touched the American soil, Arthur felt a wave of relief crash upon him. He was hurt, utterly exhausted and concerned about this turn of events, but now that he was finally back home, he allowed himself to be worried about those left behind. 

As he rode back to Shady Belle on a stolen horse, Arthur thought about people from the gang, hoping that someone could have taken care of them; hoping that Charles was okay. 

And he thought about Albert. Arthur was amazed by the fact that, despite everything that had happened during those last long days, the man was still occupying his thoughts. He supposed it was the guilt gnawing at him, for what transpired during the mess of the bank robbery. He swore to himself that, the moment things would settle down a bit, he would look for the photographer. To tell him how sorry he was, if nothing else.


	5. Better Sorry than Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy!  
> If you have stuck with me so far (and hopefully enjoyed it), thank you!  
> Now, it’s time to buckle up, because we are about to experience some serious turbulence… This story being as canon-compliant as possible, you know how it goes (down).  
> However, I promise you there is some comfort and blue sky ahead; because we all agree Arthur Morgan deserves better.

Beaver Hollow was a dreadful place. Cold, dark caves where horrible things had happened. Outside, fall was catching up, trees were losing their leaves, and rain was pouring almost every two days if not more. On top of this, there was a tense atmosphere all around camp, loaded with mistrust and despair… Arthur couldn’t blame them: he hated the fact that his family was stuck in this nasty country. But until Dutch would get a grip on himself, there was not much he could do. Other than rescuing John with Sadie’s help. Abigail and Jack – and even Marston – didn’t deserve to be collateral victims of Dutch’s distress. That didn’t mean Arthur wasn’t loyal to his mentor anymore; he was just starting to see things more clearly.

***

One morning, he finally decided to shave his too long beard, a testimony of the last weeks that he desperately wanted to forget about. After that, he took a good look in the mirror, and had a hard time keeping his eyes on what he saw: a ghastly face, with hollow cheeks and dark circles around blood-shot eyes. Arthur had felt exhausted, but he had never suspected he had been looking _that_ exhausted. Between the homecoming, the shoot-out with the Pinkertons and the urgency to find somewhere safe, again, for the gang, he had hardly had time to rest.

Maybe that was the reason he felt so damn breathless all the time.

Arthur put his hat on to hide his face, drank a full cup of coffee and mounted Cisco, who had been taken care of by Charles while he was away. His mind set, he rode down to Saint Denis. He hated this city, more than ever after the last events; but he had an appointment with Sadie there, and that was where Albert lived. And he needed to see him again, one last time.

He went to the photography studio, but Albert was not there. Arthur made his best to convince his employer, Marcel Beliveau, to give him Albert’s home address. He hid his anguish and acted charming and polite. The photographer finally agreed when Arthur told him that he was the man in the portrait hung at the galerie Laurent. But Arthur understood his reluctance: he knew perfectly well how he had changed physically, worsened, since that day – that era, even. 

As Arthur walked in the filthy streets of the city, Cisco’s reins in hand, he couldn’t help but wonder for the thousand times: what kind of ‘friend’ would assault a man, steal his money and make him fear for his life?

The burden of guilt was still heavy on his shoulders when he entered the courtyard where Albert’s apartment was. The peaceful sound of the fountain ironically contrasted with his inner turmoil.

Slowly, he climbed the steps that led to his place, and stood still in front of the entrance. He took off his hat, stared at the door for a while, then took a deep breath and knocked on it. When he heard the voice of Albert, shouting frantically ‘Yes, yes, one minute please, I’m coming!’, he almost turned back to the stairs and ran. 

But then, the door opened, and Albert Mason appeared in front of him. The colors immediately drained from the photographer’s face, and the outlaw’s heart sank. 

‘Arthur?’

‘Hello, Albert.’

The photographer stayed silent, fidgeting with the picture he had in his hands, his eyes travelling from Arthur’s face to his hat, to his torso, to his face again. 

Arthur didn’t know what to do, so he kept silent and waited. For a punch, a shout, a shove.

But none of this came. Instead, Albert suddenly disappeared into his apartment and Arthur heard him say: ‘Please… Please, come in.’

Surprised and unsure, Arthur obeyed and slowly closed the door behind him. 

Without giving it much thought, he noticed that the man was living alone, his belongings scattered all around the place – books and pictures, mostly. 

He watched Albert hastily clearing his photography material lying on the small table and opening wide his windows, letting the damp air flood the room. He then turned to Arthur and clasped his hands nervously.

‘Would you… Would you like something to drink? Maybe some tea, or something stronger?’

Arthur sighed, gathering once more his courage.

‘Albert’, he said firmly as he took a step forward, ‘I just came to tell you something, but I won’t bother you no more after that.’

‘You never bother me, Arthur.’

His answer was not what Arthur had expected – that stopped him dead in his tracks. Why Albert wasn’t mad at him? He stood still and quiet, lost in his thoughts. 

Albert, who was growing more nervous by the minute, pulled out a chair before going to his kitchen corner.

‘At least, please, take a seat. You look like you need to sit.’

Arthur let the comment pass and did as he was told, keeping quiet as the photographer was boiling water. He prepared a teapot, came back to the table with it and two refined teacups. He poured each one, offered one to Arthur and finally, finally sat down in front of him. 

Arthur was observing the photographer, who was trying his best to avoid his gaze. Then, he inhaled deeply and started to talk.

‘I’m real sorry, Albert. For what happened at the bank. If I knew you’d be there…’

‘You wouldn’t have done it?’

This time, Albert’s eyes met his, and they looked at each other silently. Arthur knew that he couldn’t give him a positive answer, because that would be a lie, and he didn’t want to lie to him. And Albert probably knew it anyway.

‘You know…’ Albert started hesitantly, and his eyes fell back down on his cup, ‘I thought you were dead.’

Arthur felt his chest tightened, not because of what the photographer had just said, but because of _the way_ he had said it. With a voice full of sorrow.

‘At the bank, I… I have never been so scared in my life,’ Albert went on, his graceful fingers slowly tracing the shape of his cup. ‘Even my – our – encounters with wild beasts didn’t frighten me as much as when your… companion put the barrel of his gun against my temple.’

Arthur remembered vividly that instant, and the rage flared back in his guts immediately. Someday, he would make Micah pay for this.

‘And I was so angry with you, Arthur.’

Albert’s eyes were on his face again, and Arthur had trouble keeping still under his steady gaze. He was facing two large, dark hazel seas of emotions, and the guilt he was feeling grew deeper. 

But then, Albert looked away, and his face fell.

‘Later, I realized that I was also angry with me, because I knew who you were, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that this kind of events could occur.’

‘Yes, but…’

Albert raised a hand to stop him. Arthur complied, and his friend went on: ‘I had a hard time reconciling those two sides of you: the caring, selfless gentleman I had met many times those last weeks; and the frightening, brutal outlaw I saw at the bank on that day.’

Arthur knew all too well what Albert was talking about; he himself was having daily trouble reconciling those two sides of him. Somehow, he was relieved Albert had finally witnessed who he really was. That was making things easier to part ways.

‘After that’, Albert continued, ‘I thought that, maybe, you would have come to… apologize, or, at least, talk about what had happened. But you never showed up. Then, I read in the newspaper that some of the criminals had been killed, and others had been lost at sea. And my anger turned into sadness.’

Albert reached out, hesitated for a moment, then tentatively put his hand on Arthur’s hand, lying on the table. Arthur didn’t move, couldn’t move. He just looked at their joined hands, confused.

‘I’m glad you’re alive, Arthur.’

Arthur didn’t know what to think anymore, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.

‘I’m so sorry, Albert. For what you’ve been through, because of me.’

The photograph withdrew his hand, and Arthur wished he hadn’t.

‘If I accept your apologies, will you let it go?’

Arthur searched his friend’s face, dumbfounded.

‘What d’you mean?’

Albert looked at him again, then sighed.

‘You don’t look well, Arthur. I don’t know what happened to you, but I can see you are eating up with guilt, and if it can lift a bit of that weight of yours, I would be quite relieved too, honestly.’

Arthur stayed silent for a moment, then shook his head.

‘You know, I don’t understand you.’

‘How so?’

‘These last days, you’ve been frightened, angry and sad, all because of me, and you still wanna help me? Why?’

Albert’s gaze on him was suddenly intense, and Arthur felt very uncomfortable. He could see that the photographer was mulling over his words.

‘Because, Arthur, you’re my friend, and I… I care for you.’

‘Despite all this?’

‘Despite all this, yes.’

Once again, their eyes locked, and they stayed that way for a while, each trying to decipher what was lying behind their words. 

‘Okay’, Arthur finally said. ‘I’ll let it go. But I promise you this: you won’t go through things like that because of me, ever again.’

Albert’s lips slightly stretched, and Arthur realized it was the first smile he was seeing on his friend’s face since he came to see him. It dawned on him that he had missed it, deeply.

‘Do not make promises you cannot keep, Mr. Morgan.’

Arthur allowed himself to smile back.

‘I reckon you might be right, Mr. Mason.’

Arthur finished his tea, stood up and felt his legs wobbled. He gripped the back of the chair for support. The photographer gave him a worried look but didn’t say a word.

‘I have to go. Thank you, Albert, for… everything.’

Albert also rose from his seat and went to open the door for him.

‘Anytime, Arthur. Let’s have a drink, soon. And please, take care of yourself.’

On his way out, Arthur hesitated before gently putting his hand on the photographer’s shoulder. An echo of the earlier gesture. The soft smile he received in return warmed his heart. 

‘I will. See you soon, Albert.’

‘See you soon, Arthur.’

As the outlaw climbed down the stairs and rode with Cisco to the saloon where Sadie was waiting for him, relief washed over him. Now that he knew that Albert was not hating him, that they were okay, he felt lighter. 

But this peaceful sentiment was quickly wiped out, as a coughing fit seized him suddenly. Trying not to panic, Arthur hurriedly dismounted his horse; next thing he knew, he was passing out in the street.

***

[Arthur’s journal]

_‘Turns out, I’m not very well. Apparently brought back some disease from fucking Guarma with me. Doctor couldn’t tell me what it was, or what was gonna happen to me. Or if I was gonna survive it.  
And I finally went to see Albert, to apologize for what happened. Despite everything, he wasn’t angry. He was even glad to see me. And I felt like a complete fool.  
All of this, and Hosea gone and Dutch losing it, it got me thinking: what kind of man have I been? What kind of man am I? What world is this we live in: a land of fury or a place of love? Am I being prepared for eternal damnation? Am I past any kind of saving? Is that all fairy tales?  
I ain’t got no good in me, I don’t think, and yet, I see goodness. I see it, if not in me, in good folk. In Abigail and her love for Jack. In that silly monk. In Albert, with his love for wild creatures and his faith in human nature.  
Maybe I don’t want salvation. Part of me has always longed for death. Well, here it comes, I suppose.’_


	6. The Good, the Bad and the Trustworthy

After his encounter with Sister Calderon next to Saint Denis’ church, Arthur wandered around in the streets of the city. 

All this talk about love, and doing good things and bad things… It was painfully echoing with the past days, during which he had started to question everything: who he was, who he had been, who he wanted to be. He didn’t recognize himself anymore, and he felt sicker as days went by. He also felt lost and helpless. Dutch losing his mind, seeing betrayal everywhere, with Micah whispering wicked things in his ear, was definitely not helping. And the last suicide mission with Cornwall had just been another mess to add to their long list of failure. 

God, how he missed Hosea; his wisdom, his kindness. 

‘Arthur?’

The outlaw emerged from his thoughts, and was barely surprised to see that his feet had led him to Albert Mason’s place. The photographer was seated on a bench in the courtyard, a book in his hand, and he was staring at him, worry written all over his face. Arthur tipped his hat and went to sit next to him.

‘Hello, Albert.’

‘Hello. How are you, my friend?’

Arthur was tired of hearing this question addressed to him on and on again, especially when he knew that the people asking it clearly saw something was wrong.

‘Never better.’

Albert snorted.

‘For an outlaw, you’re a terrible liar, Mr. Morgan.’ 

Arthur didn’t answer; he didn’t want to fight anymore, least of all with him. 

Albert didn’t push it, as he offered: ‘What about that drink? Are you free now?’

Free. Arthur wished he still knew what that word meant. He had so many things to do, but he figured he deserved some respite with his friend. He hadn’t really had time to enjoy the photographer’s company since his life tumbled down, and he wanted to feel that sentiment of peace again – something he was feeling whenever he was with him.

‘Sure, let’s go.’

As Albert led the way, Arthur noticed that the man was taking them to Doyle’s Tavern, and not to the fancy saloon where he would be more easily recognized by Bronte’s men or the cops. Arthur suspected Albert was doing this on purpose, now fully aware of his identity and his actions, and he felt grateful for the photographer’s sensibility. 

They sat up at a small table near the exit and ordered beers. Albert kept casting concerned glances in his direction, but didn’t address the elephant in the room once. Instead, he went into a cheerful mode and told him about the success of his exhibition at the galerie Laurent and the new pictures he was working on. Arthur agreed to fill him in on what happened in Guarma, omitting the gory details. He then confessed his worry about the gang and the confusion of their leader, and Albert listened to him thoughtfully. Arthur knew now that he could trust the photographer, and he interpreted the warm sensation he was feeling in his chest as a form of relief. 

As Arthur was disclosing all this to Albert, Sister Calderon’s words came back to him: ‘the actions will lead, and the heart follows’. And it struck him then: he knew what he was going to do. As the old Dutch had been saying, a lifetime ago, he was going to save fellers as need saving. Whatever it would cost him.

At some point, they had changed the subject for something lighter, and Albert was talking about his second fishing trip all on his own when Arthur felt a sudden dizziness. He had experienced it enough now to know that it wasn’t just the liquor. He tried to stand up and nearly fell off his chair. Albert was at his side in an instant.

‘Arthur, are you alright?’

The outlaw decided he didn’t want to hide the truth from him anymore. He discreetly looked around him and saw curious stares directed at them. He leaned on the photographer’s shoulder for support as he grumbled in his ear: ‘As a matter of fact, no, I ain’t.’

Albert shook his head as he helped him get out of the tavern.

‘It was a stupid question, sorry.’

‘Don’t apologize, Albert, please.’

The photographer looked deeply into his eyes.

‘Is there anything I can do? To help?’

Arthur returned his stare and saw there raw honesty. Somehow, he was still doubting he deserved Albert’s kindness. He started to cough.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Albert kept looking at him pensively. Arthur felt his delicate hand softly squeeze his side. 

‘At least, please, let me offer you some rest at my place. It’s not far from here.’

Arthur observed the concern written all over his friend’s face. He didn’t want to be the source of his worry; he had caused him too much fear and pain already as it was, even if he had agreed to let it go. He figured that Albert would feel better if he accepted his offer; and he was far too much drunk and tired to travel back to camp right now anyway. 

‘Okay.’

The photographer seemed relieved, if the sudden light in his eyes were any indication, and he helped Arthur get back to his apartment, as fast as he could. He opened his door, accompanied him to his bed and went to get him a glass of water. Arthur pulled off his boots and his hat and lied down, the dizziness worsening by the minute. When Albert came back, he put the glass on the side table and sat down on the mattress next to him.

‘Please, stay as long as you want. I promise I’ll be as quiet as possible.’

Arthur lightly chuckled, earning him another cough.

‘Thanks, Al.’

It was the first time he had used that nickname, and he did it without even thinking; it came out naturally, and he liked what he felt as he said it. The photographer too, apparently, as he gently put his hand on his shoulder, a small smile appearing on his lips.

‘It’s my pleasure, Arthur. I would do anything to repay you for all the help you gave me.’

The outlaw was too overwhelmed to say anything. He just smiled back at him, then closed his eyes. 

He was quickly drifting off to sleep, but was pulled back in as he felt his friend stood up from the bed.

‘Albert?’ he called hesitantly.

‘Mmh?’

‘D’you think I could be a good man?’ For the time I have left, he wanted to add, but held back.

He heard the photographer inhale deeply.

‘You already _are_ a good man, Arthur.’

***

When Arthur opened his eyes again, the sun was starting to fade away, bathing the room in a soft golden light. It took him several minutes to remember where he was, and he sat up in the bed to glance around him. Albert was nowhere in sight; but there was a letter on the side table. Arthur rubbed his eyes, stretched and drank the glass that was still there. Then, he picked up the paper and started to read it:

_‘My dear Arthur,  
I did not want to disturb your sleep, so I went out to run some errands.  
If you wake up before I come home and find this letter, please, feel free to do what you think is best: staying to get some more rest, or going back to your gang to help them. One way or the other, I will only ask you this, again: please, take care of yourself.  
I don’t know why you asked me this, but I feel now compelled to write it down for you: you are a good man, Arthur Morgan. I have seen the best and probably the worst of you, and yet, I know this to be true. If you cannot trust yourself, then please, at least, trust me: as an outsider, and as a friend.  
Yours,  
Albert’_

Arthur read the letter a second and a third time, then closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. After a moment, he folded it with care and put it in his satchel. After that, he ripped off a page from his journal and scribbled down a few words. He placed the note on the pillow, put his boots back on and picked up his hat. Then, after a last long look around him, committing to memory all the small details that represented Albert’s unique personality, he went out and shut the door behind him.

***

[Arthur’s letter to Albert]

_‘Dear Albert,  
Thank you for your letter, and thank you for letting me stay at your place. Turned out I really needed this. And, as always, you was a great help. I wonder who the ‘damsel in distress’ is now.  
You once said that you was eternally in my debt, but I think that, by now, you have fully repaid me, and more.  
Despite everything, I hope we’ll see each other again soon.  
Yours truly,  
A.M.’_


	7. Farewell

Arthur watched Dutch and Sadie rode away in the wagon, before glancing back at Colm’s body, dangling slowly on the gallows. 

Cutting off the head didn’t necessarily mean the O’Driscolls were going to let them be; but maybe that would buy them some time to escape all the other enemies they were facing. Pinkertons, bounty hunters, and now the army… It felt as if the whole world was closing on them. Dutch was acting crazy, getting more and more reckless, and Hosea’s words were still resonating in Arthur’s head. ‘Be careful.’ If it was a bit too late to be careful with himself, at least he could be with the others.

Since he was back in Saint Denis, he had one last thing to do in that disgusting city. Something he had promised himself to do, in case things were going to go south. And they definitely were. 

Arthur kept his cop outfit and walked in the cobbled streets, nodding innocently at bystanders and ‘colleagues’, his stupid hat partially covering his face. 

Finally, he arrived in the familiar courtyard, and discreetly looked up. The blinds of Mason’s apartment were closed, but he knew too well the photographer could be working on his prints in the dark right now. And Arthur couldn’t face him; not in his state, not when the last survivors of the gang needed his help. Somehow, deep down, and without really knowing why, he had a feeling that Albert could break his last resolve. Of course he wanted to see him, to talk to him; but what he wanted didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered now was for him to do right by the people he cared for. And, for reasons Arthur didn’t want to delve into, that also included Albert Mason. 

For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes, to hear the soft sound of the fountain, to breathe the damp air of the courtyard, to listen to the songs of the birds in the ivy, to feel the sun on his face. For a moment, he allowed himself to ignore the fact that is head was spinning and his lungs were burning. Maybe, if his life hadn’t been such a mess, he could have enjoyed coming here once in a while. Maybe. 

When Arthur opened his eyes again, he pulled out a thick envelope from his satchel and silently walked up the stairs that led to Albert’s apartment. There, he slid the letter under the door, and went back downstairs as fast as he could, in case the photographer would see it. 

But as he walked away, no sounds of footsteps or someone calling his name disturbed the quiet of the place. 

Without looking back, Arthur got rid of his silly clothes, mounted Cisco and went back to camp, his heart heavy and his mind set.

***

[Arthur’s letter to Albert]

_‘Dear Albert,  
I didn’t tell you last time I saw you, but I think you’ve guessed it: I’m real sick.   
And, in case we never meet again, I wanted to give you, with this letter, two maps that I know will be useful to you: they locate the legendary animals and fishes of this wild country. Please, be careful while tracking them – or hire someone to protect you.   
You will also find in the envelope $5,000: that’s the actual price on my head. And since you’ve never turned me in, despite knowing who I was, it’s only fair that I give it to you.   
Why did you never turn me in, Albert? This question has been bugging me since you told me at the mayor’s party. And as I’ll probably never hear your own answer, I came up with this one: you’re a truly kind man, probably the kindest I know.   
You deserve to know that, in the end, the unwavering faith you have in me helped me tie up all the loose ends.   
Thank you, Albert. Thank you for your friendship, and thank you for your trust. I’m glad I had the good fortune to meet you, time and time again, for these encounters always brought me joy, even in my darkest hours.  
Take care of yourself, Albert.  
Yours truly,  
A.M.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst with a happy ending; I repeat: angst with a happy ending! I'm sorry... Hang tight, dear reader.


	8. The Wages of Sin

The wetness of the soil was dampening his shirt, but Arthur was barely aware of his surroundings anymore. Faintly, he heard Dutch walk away, then Micah’s growl, and the sound of his footsteps reverberated against the stone wall. In a last effort, he dragged himself on the ground until he was lying on his back, his head resting on a rock. 

He had trouble keeping his eyes open; he had trouble breathing; his entire body hurt. He figured he only had minutes left and, curiously, this thought didn’t scare him. John had made it, he and his family were safe. In the end, he did the best he could. He wasn’t afraid to die anymore. 

He turned his head toward the sun that was slowly rising, bathing the valley with its soft morning rays. 

Arthur had spent countless hours of his life watching the sun rise, and he had found it beautiful every single time. He had never got tired of it. He was glad it was the last thing he was ever going to see. He thought about the sunrises he had watched with John, back when they were just kids, and then with little Jack; about those he had witnessed when he was riding back with the gang after a successful score. Then, Arthur’s thoughts drifted to all the persons he had met over the last few months, all the ones he had hurt, and all the ones he had tried to help. His chest tightened as his mind decided to focus on Albert, and suddenly, there was no one else to think about but him. He felt a single tear rolled down his bruised cheek. 

And then, finally, finally, Arthur allowed himself to close his eyes and rest.

***

It was the crackling of a fire that first reached his senses. Then, a smell he didn’t recognize. Arthur slowly opened his eyes, but the place was dark, only lit by the small flames next to him. He felt nauseous and utterly exhausted. He tried to sit down, but a sharp pain in his chest made him shout, which in turn ignited a violent cough. He felt a hand grip his shoulder and, gently but firmly, it forced him to lie back down. Arthur turned his head to look at the person at his side, and the stoic face of one of his most trusted friend appeared in front of him.

‘Charles?’

‘Don’t speak, Arthur. And don’t move, please.’

Charles reached out behind him and grabbed a canteen that he brought to his dry lips. Arthur suddenly realized how thirsty he was and drank eagerly.

‘Slow down, my friend.’

Arthur complied, then laid his head on the makeshift pillow and looked around him. His eyes, slowly adjusting to the darkness, made him see that he was lying on the ground in a tepee.

‘Rains Fall?’

Charles nodded his head.

‘I found you on the mountaintop and brought you here,’ he explained quietly. ‘He and his people have been a great help to heal you.’

‘I thought I…’

Charles’ hand went back to his shoulder and, this time, he squeezed it softly.

‘But you’re not, Arthur. You’re gonna make it. You always do.’

Arthur smiled then winced. Even his face hurt.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, my friend.’

***

When Arthur woke up the second time, Charles was still by his side. He helped him sit down and gave him a piece of cooked meat.

‘You need to regain strength.’

Arthur took the offered meal reluctantly. He still felt nauseous, but he knew that was partly because of his exhaustion; Charles was right. He nibbled at it, swallowed and winced. He wondered how many bones were _not_ broken in his body. 

‘How long was I…?’

‘About a week.’

Arthur almost choked on his food. Charles handed him the canteen, a serious look on his face.

‘You were running a fever when I found you. Rains Fall gave you his medicine, took care of you the best he could, and you were on and off for a few days. You only started to get better yesterday. But you still have bruises and broken bones, and _that_ won’t go away anytime soon.’

Arthur slowly nodded, and took another bite of the meat. He wanted to speak to Charles, to tell him everything that had happened, but he didn’t feel strong enough for that yet. He was amazed to hear that, apart from his illness, he only had broken bones and no major injuries. In his foggy memory, Micah had hit him pretty hard.

Someone entered the tepee and a flow of light flooded the small space. Arthur squinted and the trap was quickly shut. He saw Rains Fall crouching down to look at his face.

‘Mr. Morgan’, he said quietly. ‘I’m glad to see you are feeling better.’

Arthur stared at the old man in front of him. If it weren’t for him, he would probably be dead; when all _he_ had done was getting his son killed and his people endangered. He felt nauseous all over again.

‘Thank you for… Saving my life.’

Rains Fall scrutinized him, then nodded.

‘You deserve another chance, Mr. Morgan.’

Did he? Arthur couldn’t help but look away. He felt entirely vulnerable, and he didn’t know what to do or say. He kept silent as the two men walked out of the tepee. 

Arthur tried to eat the rest of his food and lied down when he couldn’t swallow anymore. He was still coughing, but it was not as bad as it had been the last weeks, and he knew that the dizziness he felt was now mostly due to his condition, no more to his sickness.

Charles came back a few minutes later, alone. He sat down next to Arthur and looked at him.

‘Rains Fall was waiting for you to get better. But now, they really have to move, before winter settles.’

Arthur nodded. He had trouble getting his head around the fact that they had all stayed, for him. Of course they needed to move, to get away from this land and the damn army.

‘Do you know a place where you could lie low while recovering?’

Arthur didn’t have to think too hard about it; the perfect spot came to him immediately. He nodded again, and Charles put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Good. You can rest now, I’ll take you to it tomorrow.’

He left again and Arthur closed his eyes. 

Hamish had given him his horse; surely he wouldn’t have mind if he had known that Arthur was also moving into his cabin.

***

Charles waited for Arthur to wake up the next morning. He gave him some bread and water, then helped him settle in a wagon. Arthur was unable to do it on his own since he discovered that he also had a broken leg.

It was still early and, as Arthur stepped out of the tepee and breathed in the brisk morning air, for the first time since he had woken up, he felt grateful to still be alive. 

Before their departure, Charles went to talk to Rains Fall, as several Wapiti gathered around them, their face neutral. Then, the chief approached the carriage and his deep gaze landed on Arthur.

‘I hope you find peace, Mr. Morgan.’ 

Arthur returned his stare, hoping it could convey how thankful and sincere he was.

‘Thank you. I hope you and your people will, too.’

Rains Fall nodded, then Charles spurred the horses forward, setting the wagon into motion. As they left the reservation, Rains Fall waved at them, surrounded by his people. The sight was overwhelming, and Arthur really wanted to believe they could escape the fate the army had decided for them.

He indicated the way to Charles, and they arrived at the Veteran’s homestead after a couple of hours, his friend being extra careful to avoid bumps on the road that could hurt Arthur’s healing body.

Charles stopped the carriage in front of the house and helped him get inside. The shelves were empty, no doubt looted since it has been deserted; but the rest of the furniture was miraculously intact, as if Hamish was about to come home any minute. 

Arthur sat down on a chair and watched his friend bring in, in addition to his gun belt and old weapons, all sorts of canned goods, meat, bread and clothes from the wagon. He must have felt Arthur’s gaze on him, as he glanced in his direction and saw the questioning look on his face.

‘I went to buy some supplies yesterday,’ he explained in a neutral tone, ‘and the Wapiti also gave me a few items for you.’

Arthur winced, still unsure why they had been so nice to someone like him. As if reading his mind, Charles said: ‘You did help them, Arthur.’

Then, he walked up to him and added: ‘I also got you this’. 

He pulled out an object from his satchel and placed it on the table, in front of Arthur. It was a leather journal, very similar to the one he used to have and had passed along to John with the rest of his things.

‘I know how important it is to you,’ Charles said in a quiet voice.

Arthur looked up at his friend, speechless. The man had saved him, taken care of him and was now making sure he was going to be okay, body and soul. Overwhelmed with gratitude, he stood up and took Charles in his arms, pain be damned. His friend returned the embrace, then put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I promised the Wapiti I would help them move, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Thank you, Charles. I…’

Charles waited for his next words, but they didn’t come. He didn’t have to hear them to understand Arthur’s thoughts. He squeezed his shoulder.

‘You’re my friend, Arthur.’

Without another word, he went out of the house and Arthur waited a few minutes before hearing a horse gallop away. He rubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath and winced. Damn ribs. 

Slowly, painfully, he stored everything Charles had left him, then started a fire. Between coughs, he forced some food and water into his stomach. Then, he draped himself in a buffalo pelt, took a pen and started to write in his new journal, his broken leg propped up in front of the fireplace.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a somber portrait of Dutch, his hat covering his eyes]

_‘I didn’t die. Micah have broken my bones, Dutch have broken my heart – but, somehow, I’m still alive. Charles and Rains Fall saved me. And once again, I’m on the road to recovery. I moved into Hamish’s house… But what’s next? I’ve been in Dutch’s gang most of my life, and now it’s gone. I’ve been an outlaw since I was a foolish kid, and what good did it bring to me, to other people? I’m still alive, but the truth is, I feel dead inside.’_


	9. In the Dead of Winter

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of the inside of Hamish’s house]

 _‘It’s been a few days since I ended up here. It’s getting colder, but I’m getting better. I realize now how dazed and confused I was after pulling through that fucking disease. Guess it’s how one must feel when playing with fire for months. But now that the dark clouds in my mind are starting to clear up, I decided to take one step at a time.  
It’s been years since I’ve been living alone. It’s strange, but it gives me plenty of time to think. About John, Abigail, Jack, Sadie, Tilly. And Mary-Beth, and poor Karen. I hope they all found a way to escape this mess. Swanson, Trelawny… Even Uncle and Pearson.  
About Javier and Bill. I still don’t understand what happened to them; maybe Guarma fucked them up even more than me.  
About Micah. I hope them Pinkertons got him and he’s now rotting in hell.  
And Dutch…'_

[a sketch of Albert, reading on a bench]

_'Also thinking about Albert, a lot. I even dreamed of him last night. I remembered he was the last person on my mind when I was almost dying. How strange is that? Guess I hold him dearer than I thought.’_

***

A couple of weeks had passed since Charles had left to help the Wapiti. Snow had started to fall, and it was now covering O’Creagh’s Run with a delicate white blanket. Despite the cold seeping into his bones, Arthur liked how winter was transforming this crazy world into a silent, quiet place. It was soothing him, helping him think about the bigger picture, instead of feeling sorry for himself.

He was recovering well. He had crafted a walking cane, for now, and a new bow, for later. Arthur was still unable to mount a horse or go hunting and it was too cold outside to fish, but he had good reasons to think that, when spring would come around, he would be back and well on his feet again.

He still had no clue what he was going to do then. 

For the moment, the hardest wasn’t the fact that he was feeling weak; he had gone through that kind of things numerous times before. No, the hardest was that every stab of pain was reminding him of Micah; and worse, of Dutch, turning his back on him. Leaving him to die. Like he had with John. In the end, he had been so messed up that he had turned his back on his closest friends – his ‘sons’, his ‘brothers’. 

If he felt a blinding rage toward Micah, he could deal with it; he knew that it would go away if he gave it enough time. He had lived and witnessed enough to know that revenge was a fool’s game.

But he didn’t know how he felt toward Dutch. And that was upsetting him. Maybe one day he would face him again. Hell if he knew what he would do in that case.

***

One sunny morning, Arthur was tending to the other horse of the wagon Charles had left him, when he heard someone approaching on the path near the cabin. He peered cautiously above his shoulder, the reassuring weight of his revolver on his hip; but there was no need to reach for it, as, speaking of the devil – or a saint in that case – he saw Charles coming in his direction.

However, his smile disappeared quickly when he saw the poor state of his friend, his clothes stained with blood and the pure look of exhaustion on his face. Charles dismounted his horse and Arthur went to support him the best he could all the way into the house. 

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, concerned.

Charles shook his head and sat on a chair. Arthur poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him.

‘The army was waiting for the Wapiti in Wyoming,’ his friend explained in a defeated voice. ‘I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough.’

‘I’m sorry, Charles.’

‘Me too. They really don’t deserve what’s happening to them.’

They kept silent for a moment, both lost in thoughts. Then, Charles sipped his coffee and asked: ‘How are you, my friend?’

‘Better. I still have trouble walking and breathing, but it’s just bones. I ain’t sick no more.’

‘Good.’

Arthur looked at his friend. Charles had always been one of the few he felt he could trust, but now, it went far beyond this. Without him, his cold body would still be lying on that mountaintop. Arthur vowed inwardly to never let him down. 

‘Thank you, Charles, for everything you did.’

‘You deserve it, Arthur. You’re a good man.’

Arthur winced. He was still having a hard time accepting people calling him that. And it made him thought about Albert, and every time he did, the flutter in his chest had nothing to do with his poor condition.

For a moment, Charles scrutinized his face silently. Then, he asked in a low voice:

‘Do you wanna tell me what happened, back there?’

It was the first thing Arthur had wanted to do when he had woken up in that tepee weeks ago: to get it all out of his chest. So he told his friend everything. How Dutch had wanted to do a last train robbery. A last mess, in which he had left John for dead. Then, how he had let Abigail to the hands of the Pinkertons, and finally him under Micah’s wrath. 

‘I’m so sorry, Arthur,’ his friend said when he had finished.

‘Don’t be,’ Arthur countered as he shrugged his shoulders. He had had time to think about all this; a lot. ‘We can’t change what’s done. We can only move on.’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that, Arthur.’

Charles stood up and went to pour himself some more coffee. As he did, he asked over his shoulder: ‘Did you think about what you’re gonna do, once you’ll feel better?’

Arthur looked out the window, at the melting snow on the branches of the pine. He didn’t have the slightest idea. He had been racking his brain about it during the last weeks, but nothing had come out of it. He only knew what he didn’t want to be anymore: a murderer and a thief. That didn’t mean he was ready to live an honest life, either. He wanted to try, but he didn’t know where to begin.

A hand on his shoulder startled him from his thoughts, and the deep voice of Charles rose behind him: ‘You’ll figure it out.’

Arthur nodded silently.

‘What about you?’

He heard Charles sigh, and his friend came back to sit in front of him, putting a second cup on the table for him.

‘I’m thinking about moving to Canada, but I don’t know yet. I feel I still got things to do here.’

‘Like taking care of a miserable feller like me?’

Charles shook his head and a smile appeared on his lips. 

‘What can I say? I have a soft spot for lost causes.’

Arthur smiled back at him and raised his drink as a wordless cheer.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Charles preparing a fish on the cabin’s table]

_‘Ever since Charles came back, he’s been staying with me. I’m grateful for his reassuring presence. I haven’t known him long, but he’s probably one of my closest friend – he was even before he saved my life. We differ a lot in temper but are close at heart.  
Spending time with him also made me understand that my feelings for Albert may be different from my feelings for a friend. There’s not a single day I don’t think about him. I’d very much like to see him again, but maybe he has forgotten me, or don’t care anymore. I don’t know.’_

***

Arthur was reading in front of to the fireplace, waiting for Charles’ return. During those endless days, he had read all of Hamish’s books, and the last one was particularly interesting: it was called ‘Walden’, by a certain Henry D. Thoreau. Even if Arthur didn’t understand or agree with everything that was written in it, the way the author was describing his environment and his neighbors was fascinating him. He couldn’t help but wonder if Dutch had ever read it.

As he stood up to revive the flames, Charles came in, his arms full of cans.

‘No more beans, I’m begging you.’

Charles chuckled and started to pile up on the shelves the goods he had just bought in Annesburg. He glanced at his friend, nodded to the discarded book on the chair and said in an amused tone: ‘I sure hope that after reading this, you’ll start gardening.’

Arthur huffed. Of course the man had already taken a look into it.

‘Sure. And I’m gonna write them books, too.’

Charles gave him a serious look, and Arthur rolled his eyes.

‘I ain’t gonna do that.’

‘Well,’ Charles said as he opened up a can of strawberries and handed it to him, ‘you still don’t know what you’re going to do with your new life, so why not?’

Arthur shook his head, a wry smile on his lips, and popped a red fruit into his mouth. 

‘About that new life thing: I had an idea.’

‘I’m listening.’

Arthur stroked the beard he had let grow on his face after his ‘death’. His hair was longer, too. If he didn’t cut either of them, in a few weeks, he would look like a mountain man, quite appropriate to his new way of life; and also crucial to make him disappear. The several bounties on his head, the Pinkertons, even Micah… If Arthur truly deserved another chance, he needed to make a real fresh start.

‘You said you made a grave for Susan, back there at Beaver Hollow. I thought there might be another one, for me. Arthur Morgan is dead. Maybe that’s the way it should be.’

Charles looked at him pensively. After a while, he nodded and said: ‘Yes, you’re right. Maybe it is.’

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of a sunrise between the mountains surrounding O’Creagh’s Run, ‘1900’ scribbled in the lower right corner]

_‘Today, we entered a new year. A new century, even. I can’t believe, after the hell I’ve been through, that I’m able to witness this. I hope it will bring to all of us ex-outlaws still alive a better future than the one we was heading for in our previous life.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> \- Apparently, the RDR2 character Evelyn Miller is inspired by H.D. Thoreau; in this AU, I decided to make them coexist, because a world without 'Walden' would be a sad world (and picturing Arthur reading this book makes me happy).  
> \- I know a century begins in the year 01; but for drama purpose, let’s assume Arthur doesn’t (sorry).  
> Thanks to all of you who have read, given kudos to and commented this story so far, I really appreciate it!


	10. Blood Brothers

Eventually, Charles stayed at the homestead with Arthur through all winter. Both men were enjoying the companionable silence they shared and the days went by peacefully, mostly between reading, fishing and, on Arthur’s part, drawing. As he was still in recovery, forced to stay home, his sketches were mainly made from memory, both happy and sad. He felt that going through this process would help him identify where he came from to, hopefully, figure out where he wanted to go next.

They also kept a close look on the newspapers Charles were bringing back from Annesburg from time to time, but nothing caught their eyes. As if trouble had stopped the minute the gang fell apart. As if the past would stay in the past. A thought they both knew was too good to be true. 

When spring finally came, Arthur didn’t need his cane anymore, and he was able to ride a horse again.

‘So, now that you’re feeling better, is there anyone you’d like to visit?’ Charles asked him one morning, as they were eating breakfast.

The first name that immediately came to Arthur’s mind was Albert’s. However, he was still unsure of whether it would be a good thing to see him again. Despite how good friends they had become in the end and how desperate he was to know if the man was okay, he didn’t want to impose his sorry self on the photographer. 

Instead, he told the close second name he was thinking about: ‘The Marstons?’

Charles smiled to himself.

‘I figured. In fact, I already asked around, discreetly of course. Apparently, they settled in a ranch in Big Valley.’

Arthur couldn’t help but snort in his coffee.

‘John, working on a ranch?’

‘Well, he’s a family man, now, he’s gotta make a living.’

‘I sure hope so.’

***

They left the cabin in the afternoon, both riding the horses the Wapiti had given them with the wagon at the beginning of winter. They were fine steeds; but Arthur missed Cisco. After Boadicea, he never thought he would get attached so strongly to another horse. His death had been another blow to take.

He was also thinking about Buell. After Hamish’s death, he hadn’t had the heart to leave him behind, so he had put him in a stable to be taken care of, if nothing else. Now that he could ride again, maybe he should go look for him.

As it was the real first time Arthur was traveling again, they decided to take it slow, and they stopped at Valentine for the night, using a good part of their savings. It was only a few months since Arthur had come into the town, but some new houses had already been built, and there were more people wandering around. However, nobody recognized him in the streets; not even the bartender in the saloon. That eased him a bit and allowed him to enjoy his first night out in forever without being sick. 

He had lost some weight though, and found out the hard way that, as a consequence, he wasn’t able to drink as much as he did before. 

‘Come on,’ Charles said, barely hiding the amused tone of his voice at seeing Arthur slumped on the table, ‘time to go to bed.’

‘I ain’t tired, Charles,’ Arthur whined, leaning on his friend’s shoulder as he carried him out of the saloon and to the hotel across the street. ‘Let’s play some poker.’

‘I’ll play poker with you when you can hold your liquor again,’ Charles quipped, climbing up the stairs carefully.

‘What’s the fun in that?’

Charles didn’t reply as he dropped him onto the bed of the room they had rent earlier. Arthur laid there on his back, while Charles was pulling out his boots before covering him with a blanket and lying down next to him. Arthur was paying him no attention; his foggy thoughts had drifted to Albert once again, and the night they had spent at the Bastille saloon, a lifetime ago.

‘Albert’s more fun than you,’ he finally mumbled.

He was too inebriated to see the curious stare his friend gave him.

‘Who’s Albert?’

A dreamy smile appeared on Arthur’s lips.

‘Best man I know.’

***

The next morning, Arthur was not as hungover as he thought he would be; which was good, since he was about to reveal to his brother that he wasn’t dead after all.

When he asked Charles if he did something stupid last night, his friend assured him he didn’t, but Arthur noticed the playful glint in the other man’s eyes. He decided to drop it anyway.

They left Valentine early and traveled through the north of West Elizabeth all morning. When they arrived at the entrance of Pronghorn Ranch, the spring sun was high in the sky, and Arthur was reveling in the feeling of the soft heat of its rays on his face. He had missed this, roaming the land freely; he was finally starting to feel reborn.

They dismounted their horses and entered the property on foot. Charles was going to ask a ranch hand about John when Arthur spotted him: he was milking a cow in a small distant barn. He was sitting on a stool, his broad back to them, but Arthur had instantly recognized his own satchel, resting on his brother’s hip.

He approached him and said loudly: ‘Howdy, cowboy!’

John quickly turned around, startled, and when his eyes landed on his brother, they went wide.

‘Arthur?’ 

Arthur just stood there, grinning from ear to ear. He never thought he would be this happy to see Marston one day. The man had grown a beard too, but it still couldn’t hide those long scars of his.

‘Son of a bitch’, John suddenly said, before walking up to his brother and taking him in a strong embrace. Arthur winced.

‘Easy on the ribs.’

John pulled away as he mumbled an apology, then stared at him, still shocked.

‘I thought… I thought…’

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently.

‘Yeah, me too, but Charles saved my ass.’

He nodded toward his friend, who was standing a few feet away from them, a small smile on his lips.

‘Charles Smith!’ John exclaimed as he next went to him. He stopped in front of the tall man and asked wryly: ‘No broken ribs?’

Charles shook his head and they exchanged a hug. 

‘Jim? Who are those fellers?’

The three of them turned toward a middle-aged bearded man, who was approaching them with a wary look. 

‘Just some old friends, Mr. Dickens.’

Said Mr. Dickens kept scrutinizing them for a while. Arthur could feel the mistrust emanating from the man and kept his face neutral. 

‘Guess it’s time for your break, anyway,’ Mr. Dickens finally stated, before walking away with a wave of his hand.

Arthur looked at his brother.

‘Jim, uh?’

‘Yeah,’ John answered, scratching his beard nervously. ‘Jim Milton.’

Arthur extended his hand.

‘Well, Jim Milton, it’s nice to meet you. My name’s Arthur Miller.’

***

John led them to the small house he was living in at the ranch. When he opened the door, Abigail was putting plates on the table, and she called for him: ‘Meal’s ready!’

‘Good,’ John answered, ‘‘cause we have guests.’

Abigail turned to the men that had just entered her home. A smile stretched her lips when she saw Charles but, when it was Arthur’s turn, it disappeared suddenly and her eyes filled up with tears. She threw herself at his neck before John had the chance to warn her about his injuries. Arthur braced himself and held her back, taking comfort in her embrace.

‘Oh, Arthur!’

Arthur’s heart clenched in his chest, as he was instantly reminded of the last dreadful time they had seen each other. She pulled away and placed a delicate hand on his bearded cheek. Arthur gave her a coy smile, then saw Jack imitating his mother, as he and ran to him, shouting: ‘Uncle Arthur!’

He crouched in front of the boy as he possibly could, careful of his injured leg, and opened his arms wide to welcome him. 

‘Hello, Jack.’

‘They said you went on a vacation, but I knew you would come back to see us one day!’

The faith in the boy’s voice achieved to tear Arthur’s walls down, and he held him tight against his chest, his eyes closed to hold back his tears.

***

The meal they shared felt like a dream to Arthur. He couldn’t believe they were all safe and back together. They avoided any harmful topics in front of little Jack and kept smiling as the Marstons told them about their life at the ranch. As a real, honest family. After a moment, Arthur identified the warmth he was feeling in his chest: it was pride. John had really made it. He had always been a lucky bastard after all.

When they were finished, Jack asked if he could go see the horses. Abigail went with him, and Arthur seized the opportunity to explain to John everything that happened after they separated on the mountain top. At the end of the story, his brother was avoiding his gaze, his arms crossed over his chest.

‘You sent me off, Arthur. You was so sure you was gonna die, I didn’t… I should’ve come back for you.’

Arthur winced. He had suspected he wouldn’t be the only one shouldering guilt.

‘If you’d come back, Micah would’ve killed us both, or the Pinkertons,’ he said in a firm voice, hoping it would convince his brother to let this go. ‘What happened happened, there ain’t nothing to regret.’

For a moment, John searched his face, then nodded. After a while, he went on: ‘I ain’t heard about the Pinkertons since.’

‘Me neither,’ Charles confirmed. Arthur knew his friend had led his own investigation to know their whereabouts; but he hadn’t been able to find anything. 

‘Maybe they gave up?’

The three of them exchanged unconvinced looks.

‘I’m being extra careful, though’, John said. ‘You never know.’

‘And what about Micah? Or Dutch?’

Upon hearing those names, Arthur saw his brother tightly clenched his jaw.

‘Ain’t heard of them either. Wish I never will.’

Arthur completely understood John’s anger. In more ways than one, Dutch had saved both of them; before betraying them in the worst possible way.

They dropped the subject silently and Charles started to clear the table. Arthur was about to help his friend when something fell on his head. Something very familiar. He adjusted his old hat and stared at John, who was standing next to him, his satchel in his hand. 

‘Thank you,’ Arthur said hoarsely as he took it, ‘for holding onto these.’

His brother simply nodded, but Arthur knew how much it meant to John, to be able to give him his things back, for it meant a lot to him, too.

‘Come on, I’ll show you the ranch.’

John put on his flat cap and they both went outside, Charles deliberately staying behind so they could have a moment to themselves.

‘Everything’s alright with Abigail?’ Arthur asked as they were walking toward the stables, where his wife and kid were marveling at horses.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw John shrugged.

‘I don’t know. It’s been rough those last months, we finally settled here, but there are some nasty people around. I… encountered them once or twice, and she didn’t take it well.’ 

Arthur remained silent for a while, considering his next words carefully. Then, he finally told him: ‘Look, just do one thing or another... not be two people at once. That's all I'm saying.’

John raised his hands in surrender.

‘I know.’

They kept walking silently, until John stopped and turned to look at him.

‘It’s just… It’s hard, you know? I’m trying to quit this life, but it really sticks with you. We’ve been in the gang nearly all of our life, and now…’

Facing John, Arthur realized how it must have been difficult for him too, lately. Arthur certainly had to heal, but he had been under the meticulous care of Charles. John was the one who had to take care of his family, all on his own. No more surrogate fathers or brother to look after him now and then.

‘You’ve got your own family, John. You have to find a way to put all this behind you and move on. Give yourself some time.’

John gave him a small smile.

‘I missed you.’

Arthur mirrored it.

‘I missed you too, Johnny boy.’

They started to walk again, and John asked him: ‘What about you? Did you move on?’

For a while, Arthur stared straight ahead, lost in his thoughts. How could he tell him that he felt stuck in-between, still half-dead, without any purpose?

‘It ain’t the same for me.’

‘Come on, Arthur. What about your sweetheart?’

Arthur snorted.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘You know, that photographer, what’s his name again?’

Arthur suddenly froze, and John kept walking until he noticed his brother was motionless. He went back to him, a wicked smile on his lips.

‘How the _hell_ do you know about him?’ Arthur growled.

John remained silent, stroking his beard to try to hide his grin, and then it dawned on him.

‘You read my journal!’ he yelled, marching toward the other man, his anger putting him back into action.

Once again, John raised his hands in front of him.

‘I thought you was dead!’

‘Still! You had no fucking right!’

He tried to reach for his brother’s collar, but the sneaky bastard slipped away. Arthur was in no condition to fight him anyway. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him.

John had the audacity to add: ‘Your drawings are amazing, by the way.’

‘Shut up. And he ain’t my _sweetheart_.’

John started to chuckle, but when he saw that Arthur’s face was still very serious, he stopped to scrutinize him. They looked at each other silently for a while, then John approached him carefully and, when he was sure Arthur wasn’t going to pounce on him, he put a hand on his shoulder.

‘My advice to you, big brother: when you get home, read that journal of yours.’

Arthur shoved him away.

‘You’ve always been such a pain in the ass, Marston.’

‘That’s why you like me.’

‘Whatever you say.’

Charles joined them a few moments later, and they made the tour of the propriety while chatting. Arthur was still having trouble walking, but he managed to hide it, until Charles noticed his limp: ‘Told you you should have brought your cane.’

That didn’t go unnoticed by John, who gave him a playful look.

‘I wish I could’ve seen that cane, grand-pa.’

‘Charles,’ Arthur huffed, ‘remind me why we came to see him?’

‘Because you like him,’ his friend answered neutrally.

‘See?’ John said with a smug grin.

Arthur just rolled his eyes.

***

They said their goodbyes to the Marstons, and Arthur earned a hug from each one of them. When John pulled him into a much more careful embrace than the previous one, he whispered to him: ‘Take care of yourself, Arthur.’

Arthur tightened his arms around his brother’s shoulders.

‘You too, John. Of you and your family.’

‘I will.’

They separated, and it wasn’t until Arthur was in his saddle, ready to ride away, that John added: ‘And read your damn journal, for Christ’s sake!’

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of the table of the Marstons’ house at Pronghorn Ranch]

_‘Charles and I went to see the Marstons. It was great to be together again. It’s only been a few months, but Jack is still growing up fast. And smart. John did good so far, I hope he’ll keep it that way._  
_This stupid moron read my journal, and called Albert my ‘sweetheart’. And now that I’ve read it too, I get why. I really fell for him, without realizing it. Guess it’s because I never felt that way for a man before… And there was too much going on at that time. But now, I really miss him. I miss his smile, his comforting presence, his way of seeing things – even his endless talking._  
_Maybe I’ll run into him out there, like I used to. See what’ll happen.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, this story still being as canon-compliant as possible, I’m kind of following the epilogue, but I took some liberty with the timeline (months instead of years)… Hopefully, it will still make sense and won’t prevent you from enjoying the rest of it!


	11. An Honest Mistake

A few days after their reunion with the Marstons, Charles went back to Canada to make sure the Wapiti didn’t need any more help. 

Arthur decided it was time for him to see if Buell was still in that stable, up north of Van Horn. Knowing the temper of the horse, he just hoped they hadn’t got rid of him for a fistful of dollars. 

When he arrived there, a young man approached him with a bright smile.

‘Howdy, mister!’ 

‘Howdy.’

‘Looking for a better horse?’ he asked as he nodded to the one he was mounting.

Arthur glared at the stable boy, and the smile on his face disappeared instantly.

‘Looking for _my_ horse. I left it with you folks last fall.’ 

‘Come with me?’ the young man answered feebly as he went into the stable. 

Arthur dismounted and followed him inside. His heart sank when he didn’t see Buell among the horses.

‘He ain’t there.’

Panicked flickered in the eyes of the young man, who scratched his arm nervously.

‘You sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure,’ Arthur scoffed. ‘You can’t miss this huge stubborn beast when he’s around.’

The boy stopped his motion and glanced at him hesitantly. 

‘Wait, is it… Is it a creamy gold Dutch Warmblood?’

Arthur looked at him, surprised.

‘Yeah, exactly. Buell, he’s my horse. Is he still here?’

The boy scratched his arm again.

‘Well, yeah. My boss takes him for a ride sometimes to… calm him down.’

Arthur started to laugh, which took the boy off guard. After a while, he relaxed a bit.

‘I see what you mean. I’m glad you didn’t sell him.’

‘Apparently, you insisted that we keep him.’

‘I sure did.’

***

Arthur waited for the owner of the stable to come back, sketching in his journal under a tree, while the young boy was taking care of the horses, as far away from him as possible. Arthur didn’t know what to make of the fact that he could still inspire fear in the people he met. His long beard and hair weren’t probably helping either. It used to amuse him; now, he only found it annoying.

He turned his head when he heard a nicker and smiled. Buell approached him and, despite the passage of time, he seemed to recognize his new master, as he slightly lowered his head and bumped his nose into Arthur’s shoulder. 

‘Did you come to get him back?’ the owner asked in a careful tone.

Arthur nodded, gently patting the horse’s neck.

‘Thank God. This one can be an angry bastard!’

‘I ain’t surprised’, Arthur answered wryly.

Then, as something came to his mind, he asked: ‘Do you need an extra-hand, by any chance? I also know how to tame wild horses, if you ever need new ones.’

The owner looked at him pensively, stroking his beard. Then, his gaze traveled to Buell, eating the sugar cube Arthur had pulled out of his satchel for him. 

‘Sure, why not.’ 

The other man dismounted Buell and extended his hand.

‘Tell you what: come back tomorrow and we’ll talk about this. Alright, Mister…?’

‘Miller,’ he answered as he shook the offered hand. ‘Arthur Miller.’

‘Robert Morrison. You can call me Bob.’

‘Alright, Bob.’

A moment later, Arthur left the stable with Buell, a brand-new saddle and everything that went with it, as well as his first opportunity for an honest job. He had never pictured himself as a stable boy, but he guessed it was as good a start as any. 

As Arthur was riding back to O’Creagh’s Run, a very familiar sight caught his eyes among the trees on the side of the road, and his blood froze. 

A man was standing there, his back to him, a straw boater hat on his head. 

Arthur made Buell slow down and trot into the man’s direction. His heart was now wildly beating in his chest and his hands felt clammy on the reins. Was it only possible that he would meet Albert in the wilderness, for the first time in weeks, as he did so many months ago? 

But as he got closer, he started to notice that the man was taller than Albert, and that his clothes weren’t quite the same. And when he turned around, probably upon hearing him coming, Arthur had to face the fact that the beardless man warily looking at him was not the photographer he was so desperate to see again.

‘Yes, can I help you?’

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed.

‘No, I was just… Checking, if everything’s okay.’

The man eyed him curiously for a moment, then nodded.

‘Everything’s fine, thank you. I’m just waiting for my wife, she needed to… Well.’

‘Oh. I see.’

They endured a few more seconds of an awkward silence, before Arthur started to fidget on his saddle.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then. Good day.’

‘Good day to you too, Mister.’

Arthur rode away from the clearing, making Buell go as fast as he could. 

He couldn’t decide what was troubling him the most: that he had walked in on this couple and probably frightened the poor man, or that he had thought that Albert was there and had nearly lost it. 

Maybe it was finally time to do something about it.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Buell’s head]

_‘Charles left, don’t know for how long, and I’m on my own again. Though in better shape than last time._  
_Went to pick up Buell at the stable. I’m glad to ride again, with him – he’s a great horse. Another thing I owe to Hamish._  
_On the way back, I thought I saw Albert. It’s not enough that I dream and think about him all the damn time – I’m starting to hallucinate him, too. So I decided to stop being a fool and sent him a letter. To ask him to meet me, five days from today, where he tried to fly with the eagles. At least, if he don’t show up, I’ll be able to move on.’_

[a sketch of the back of a man’s head with a straw boater hat]


	12. Good Things Come to Those Who Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is also dedicated to you, dear reader.

[Arthur’s journal]

_‘I shouldn’t have sent that stupid letter. What was I thinking? It’s too dangerous. What if the Pinkertons are still looking for me and Albert gets hurt because of me?'_

___

 _'This is foolish. I’m supposed to be ‘dead’. Just need to be careful is all. Maybe Albert won’t even come anyway.'_

___

 _'Maybe_ I _shouldn’t go.'_

___

_'Get a goddamn grip on yourself, Morgan.’_

***

Arthur was aggressively smoking his third cigarette since he arrived at the meeting point, not even half an hour ago. He had picked up that nasty habit after his full recovery, because it was the only thing he could do when he was tense. He couldn’t remember for the life of him when was the last time he felt so nervous to see someone. Probably years ago, when he was head over heels for Mary. Arthur had only been attracted to a few people, but when he was hooked, it was serious. He just hoped he wouldn’t ruin things this time, even if it were to remain a friendship.

When he heard the sound of hooves behind him, he turned around, and maybe his heart stopped beating. Albert Mason was perched on a horse, trotting toward him. He was wearing those same damn clothes and that same damn hat. That trimmed bear of his was still covering his delicate face. And he, too, looked very nervous. More than usual – which was saying a lot.

He dismounted his steed and walked hesitantly in his direction. When he was close enough, their gazes locked, and Albert’s eyes widened.

‘A… Arthur? Is that really you?’

Arthur remembered that he had changed a lot physically since the last time they saw each other. He took a step toward the photographer and offered him a lopsided grin: ‘Yes, Albert, it’s really me.’

Albert’s face paled suddenly, and Arthur thought he was about to faint. But then, the photographer almost ran to where he stood and, once in front of him, stopped suddenly. As if he wanted to take him in his arms, but didn’t dare to. Arthur laughed out loud, for the first time in many weeks.

‘C’mere,’ he said as he instinctively pulled Albert into an embrace.

The photographer reciprocated immediately, his arms sliding around his shoulders in what felt a much more intimate hug than the ones he had shared with John and Charles recently. Albert’s hat fell to the ground, but he didn’t pay it any attention as he sighed heavily against Arthur’s vest.

‘I didn’t think you were still alive, _again_ ’ he heard his muffled voice say. ‘When I got your letter, I… I couldn’t wait to see if it was true. I’ve been staying in Valentine for three days now.’

Arthur laughed again. After his endless qualms, he was so glad to finally see the photographer that all his nervousness was gone, replaced only by a warm joy. The genuine words escaped his lips before he had time to think about them: 

‘I missed you, Al.’

He felt the arms around him squeeze tighter.

‘Me too, Arthur, me too.’

As they separated, Arthur felt Albert’s hands linger on him. When he pulled away completely, his eyes fell on the photographer’s face, and he saw that he was staring at him in wonder. All he wanted right now was to brush that strand that had fallen from his well-kept hair on his forehead. He felt a blush creep up on his cheeks and he forced himself to look away, in direction of Valentine.

‘What about a drink, like the good old days?’

‘Yes, I would very much like that. My treat!’

Arthur picked up Albert’s hat from the ground and handed it to him, earning him a ‘such a gentleman’, causing him another blush. They mounted their horses and trotted quietly toward the livestock town. 

Arthur couldn’t help but glance discretely at the photographer from time to time, drinking in the sight of him simply being there. When he did it for the third time, their eyes met, and Albert’s lips stretched into a timid smile. Arthur adjusted his hat to hide his embarrassment and stared straight ahead for the rest of the road.

***

Albert sat down at a small table in Smithfield’s saloon while Arthur went to order them beer. When he came back, Albert was still looking at him in wonder and, as he approached him, a blinding grin appeared on the photographer’s face. Arthur returned it happily.

‘First things first,’ he said as he sat and put their bottles on the table. ‘Arthur Morgan is dead. I’m Arthur Miller, in charge of delivering you the news.’

Albert took the bottle in his hand and raised it in front of him.

‘Well, that is very unfortunate. I’ll drink to your own health, then, Mr. Miller.’

Arthur stifled a laugh as he imitated him, and they clinked their bottles. 

‘And to yours, Mr. Mason.’

‘You’re too kind, sir.’

They took a sip and exchanged another smile. Arthur watched Albert’s hand, gripping and un-gripping his bottle, as if itching to touch something else.

‘I can’t begin to express you how glad I am to see you, Arthur. Your last letter, that fall…’

Arthur didn’t want to think about that time, not now that the presence of Albert had succeeded in keeping those dreadful memories at bay. 

‘Did you put what I left you in good use?’ he asked instead.

Albert’s face lightened again.

‘Good heavens, yes! Thanks to your _gifts_ , I’ve been able to buy a brand-new photography equipment and to take some pictures of the most beautiful creatures I’ve ever seen! I haven’t captured them all yet, but I am, slowly but surely, working on it. Have you seen that legendary fox, near Rhodes? With its beautiful silver coat and its…’

Albert interrupted himself, possibly because Arthur was giving him an amused look. How he had missed those rantings of his. The photographer took another sip of his beer to hide his embarrassment, then a coy smile appeared on his lips. 

‘You do realize, dear Arthur, that I’m back in your debt for this… I would very much like to show you those pictures, someday. You are my benefactor, after all.’

Arthur was grateful his beard was partially covering his damn incessant blushing. 

‘It’d be a pleasure.’

***

Arthur didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was completely dark when they finally exited the place, full, drunk and laughing. Apart from the meal shared with the Marstons a few days ago, Arthur never felt so happy in the last months as he did now. He had been to hell and back, and he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Albert was still there to greet him.

But it had been more than simple greetings: for the first time, Arthur noticed that Albert never once mentioned a woman. He also noticed the lingering looks and ambiguous questions. Maybe they had been there all along, but he had been too dumb to notice them. Or maybe it was just the way Albert was, and it didn’t mean anything. Either way, Arthur was confused and he had decided to set it aside for the rest of the day to enjoy his reunion with his friend.

When they arrived in front of the Saints Hotel, Arthur stopped and Albert cast him a questioning glance.

‘Are you not sleeping here?’

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

‘No, I… I can’t really afford a hotel room right now.’

‘Oh.’

It was Albert’s turn to be embarrassed, and he saw the photographer stroke his beard as he looked all around him, pointedly avoiding his gaze.

‘Can I… Can I offer you to pay for it?

‘This is really kind, Albert, but I must decline.’

Why, he had no idea. Albert obviously wanted him to stay. He wanted it, too – but he was afraid of what might come out of it. Arthur felt they were both standing side-by-side on the edge of a cliff, staring at the pit in front of them, and he kept wondering if he should just grab Mason by the hand and jump. 

‘Will I… Will we see each other again, soon?’

Albert’s voice sounded almost desperate. Or maybe he just had one too many.

‘Yeah, probably sooner than last time.’

Albert let out a humorless laugh.

‘Good, good. I…’

The photographer fell silent, and his eyes finally landed on Arthur. They searched his face, and Arthur wanted to know what was going on inside that smart head of his. He also wanted to break that tension between them, which was quickly becoming unbearable. 

Albert took the lead though, as he suddenly threw him a too cheerful: ‘Well, good night, then!’, before turning around and entering the hotel without so much as another glance.

Arthur stood there, speechless, before shaking his head at the photographer’s antics. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he had been imagining things. Maybe he’ll have a clearer head tomorrow and be relieved he hadn’t _try anything_.

But as Arthur started to walk toward his horse, he felt like a complete fool. What was he thinking? That they would meet again and everything would fall into place? That Albert reciprocated his feelings? Which feelings, anyway? How could he, when Arthur was just… 

He sighed, forced himself to interrupt this pitiful train of thought and mounted Buell. Reflexively, he took a last look at the hotel. And froze. 

Albert was staring at him from a window. When he saw Arthur’s eyes settling on him, he didn’t move. They just looked at each other in this strange situation for what felt like hours. Then, the photographer disappeared behind the curtains. 

Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the attraction he had experienced all day toward Albert; either way, Arthur took an impulsive decision. He couldn’t leave without confronting him. He had spent the last weeks thinking about all this – _he had to know, now_. 

He dismounted his horse and walked firmly to the hotel. He asked the bored receptionist for Albert’s room number, who gave it to him without question. Arthur climbed the stairs two at a time and stopped when he reached his door. Was it such a good idea after all? Maybe he should just… 

The door opened suddenly, and there stood Albert, vest unbuttoned, eyes wide, hair messy as if pulled out in frustration. Once again, their gazes locked. Wordlessly, Arthur entered the room, at the same time towering the nervous photographer. He shut the door with his foot, and Albert’s dark eyes searched his face again, frantically. 

Arthur couldn’t help himself: he glanced at Albert’s mouth, at those full lips he had wanted to kiss all night. All day. For days. He saw them opening, then heard his name, uttered in a reverent murmur. Carefully, he brought his hands to Albert’s face and gently rested them on his bearded cheeks. He saw the photographer close his eyes, and those lips that remained parted. Tentatively, he caressed them with his thumb. He heard Albert’s breath hitched.

Unable to hold back anymore, Arthur finally brought their heads and lips together. Albert didn’t push him away; instead, he grabbed the collar of his shirt and tried to pull him closer, reciprocating eagerly. 

If kissing a man was practically new to Arthur, he found he didn’t dislike it at all. And if Albert’s soft noises of pleasure were any indication, that feeling was completely mutual.

After a moment, Arthur pulled away, overwhelmed, and looked at the photographer. The other man opened his eyes, and the smile that broke upon his face lighted them in a way Arthur had never seen so far. He decided there and then that it was time for him to acknowledge the fact that he found Albert Mason gorgeous.

‘I never thought,’ Albert whispered, ‘that you, of all men, could have...’

‘But I do,’ Arthur interrupted him, breathless. ‘For you, I do.’

Albert put a hand on his cheek, as if verifying that he was real, and the soft touch made him close his eyes.

‘Truth is, I’ve missed you like crazy,’ Arthur confessed out loud, both to himself and to the photographer.

‘Me too, Arthur. For months, I… I regretted not telling you how I felt.’

Arthur opened his eyes to cast him a curious glance.

‘Tell me, then. How do you feel?’ he asked in a low voice.

As Albert was looking at him, a playful glint appeared in his hazel eyes.

‘Let me show you, rather, now that I can.’

Unsurprisingly, but much to Arthur’s delight, it turned out that the photographer was as focused, meticulous and mindful in bed as he was with a camera.

***

The sound of Albert yawning made Arthur look up from his journal. He was seated in the chair in the corner of the room, drawing what he was seeing with the first rays of the spring sun. Albert offered him a beautiful sleepy smile.

‘You’re still here,’ he stated in a husky voice.

‘What?’

‘It was not a dream, and you didn’t run away.’

Arthur stared at him, astounded, then shook his head, closed his journal and went to the bed. He sat next to Albert, who was now lying on his side, his head propped up in his hand, looking at him in a daze.

‘I assure you,’ Arthur told him as he put his hand on Albert’s shoulder, ‘it couldn’t be more real.’

Then, he shoved him gently, making him fall flat on his back.

‘And you’re a fool for thinking I would run away from _you_.’

He climbed onto the bed and hovered over Albert, who was grinning at him like a mad man. 

‘You won’t get rid of me that easily, Mr. Mason.’

Albert slid his arms around Arthur’s neck, the light in his eyes indicating he was now perfectly awake.

‘Oh, I don’t mind being stuck with a gentleman such as yourself, Mr. Morgan. Or should I say _Mr. Miller_.’

Arthur shook his head again, before being pulled into a passionate kiss.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Albert lying in bed, his naked body partially covered by a blanket, his sleeping face turned to the viewer]

_‘I kissed Albert last night. And we had sex. Still seems surreal to me. I’ve been thinking about him romantically for a while now, but I never suspected that he had been, too. Well, maybe it was obvious, I don’t know._  
_How did I get so lucky? After Mary, after Eliza, I never thought I would deserve another chance at that kind of thing. Somehow, Albert seems to think I do._  
_How did I get so lucky?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say it was one of the most difficult chapters I had to write so far, simply because it was their reunion / get-together and I desperately wanted it to feel _right_. For days, I imagined hundreds of scenarios and eventually decided to settle with this one… So I hope it did feel right for you, dear reader!  
> If you’re satisfied, I promise you there is a lot more coming for our soft boys :)


	13. Arcadia for Lovers

When Arthur traveled back home, he felt lighter than he had in years. After having his heart broken twice, and for numerous reasons, he had closed himself off to any romantic involvements, keeping relations with women (and even sometimes men) purely physical. He had forgotten how a shared attraction, both intellectual and physical, could be so fulfilling when overtly acted upon. 

Even if they didn’t talk about what that night could entail for their relationship, they agreed to meet again at Emerald Station a week later, so Arthur could show the photographer where he was living. Of course, it was enough time for him, despite being occupied by his job at the stable, to start questioning Albert’s feelings toward him and be, once again, extremely nervous when the day of their rendezvous came. 

However, any doubts clouding Arthur’s mind disappeared as soon as he closed the door of his cabin: Albert, who had been unusually silent on the way home, barely waited for him to turn around before he eagerly crashed his lips on his own. As a consequence, they ended up naked and pressed against each other very quickly. 

Even if it was only the second time they were sharing that kind of intimacy, Arthur was stricken by how comfortable they felt with one another. He couldn’t help but wonder how their relationship would have turned out, had they met earlier and under different circumstances.

Later that morning, Arthur lazily lighted a cigarette, while his lover was sighing contently next to him on the small bed. He turned his head toward the photographer and smiled upon seeing him so relaxed, lying on his stomach, his eyes closed and his hand resting possessively on one of Arthur’s naked thighs. A ghost of a smile was gracing his full lips. That sight helped him believe that Al wanted _him_ , apparently had for a while now.

‘How long?’ Arthur finally whispered after a moment of silent contemplation, his fingers tracing random shapes on Albert’s extended arm.

The photographer merely let out a humming sound. Arthur chuckled before pressing on: ‘How long have you been… sweet on me?’

Those expressive eyes opened to settle on his face.

‘If I tell you, you won’t laugh at me?’

‘I’d never do that.’

‘Still a terrible liar, I see.’

Arthur leaned over him and nibbled gently at his ear before murmuring: ‘Come on, Al. Then _I_ ’ll tell you for me.’

The photographer shivered, then hid his head in the pillow.

‘I fell for you after the bank robbery,’ his muffled voice said.

Arthur’s jaw dropped.

‘You’re kidding.’

Albert looked at him again, and started to gesture wildly with his hand: ‘Well, of course I was attracted to you before, ever since the first time we met, if I’m being honest. But then, I thought I would never see you again, and this is when I realized that… Hum.’

He stopped his movements and his stare became more intense.

‘As I told you once: loving killers is a part of our makeup.’

Arthur decided to ignore the fact that Albert used the word ‘love’ in a sentence closely related to him, and instead settled for what he knew best to avoid something: he burst out laughing. 

Next to him, Albert rose on his elbow and faintly shoved him.

‘I knew you would laugh at me!’

‘Sorry,’ Arthur said, sincere, as he wept tears from his eyes. ‘You’re just… Adorable, I guess?’

‘Mmh. Not the word you used to describe me earlier, if I recall correctly.’ 

Arthur choked on the smoke he had just inhaled, and Albert gave him a cheeky grin. 

‘What about you, then?’

Arthur put out his cigarette and watched the graceful face of the man next to him. Albert _was_ adorable, with that sparkle in his hazel eyes, that rosy flush on his cheeks, that disheveled brown hair falling on his forehead. He wanted to kiss him; and now that he could, he grabbed his chin and slowly brought their lips together. Albert received the affectionate gesture with another content sigh, and they both lied back down in each other’s arms.

Arthur waited a bit before confessing quietly: ‘I was so… preoccupied with what was happening, with the gang and all, that I didn’t realize you was making your way into my heart. It really dawned on me this winter, while I was recovering.’

Arthur had told Albert about his last months, the next morning in Valentine. Similarly to that day, for a moment, there was only silence; then, Albert snuggled against him and if Arthur couldn’t see his face, he could hear the emotion in his voice when he whispered: 

‘I’m so glad you made it through.’ 

Arthur just held him tighter.

***

After Albert discovered the envelope full of cash Arthur had left him, he made a deal with his employer, Marcel Beliveau: he would remain at his service, help him in the studio whenever he could; but if he wanted to take a few days off, he was free to do it. Mr. Beliveau needed his talent, so he wasn’t going to lay him off – and Albert had now enough money to do as he pleased.

That’s what the photographer was explaining to Arthur while they were eating, after a quick dip in the chilly water of the lake. The ex-outlaw looked at him and a lopsided grin appeared on his lips.

‘Are you telling me you wanna stay here?’

Albert, suddenly on edge, started to poke his beans around with his fork.

‘Well, I… Just for a couple of days, of course. That is, if you don’t mind. If you don’t have anything better to do.’

Arthur chuckled at Albert’s nervousness, another trait of him he started to find really endearing. To ease the poor man, he quickly said:

‘Better things to do than fool around with you and learn to know you better? No, I don’t think I do, Al.’

The photographer gave him a small smile and Arthur noticed the blush on his cheeks.

‘You seem surprised.’

Albert looked down to his plate again and scratched his beard.

‘To be honest with you, Arthur, I am still trying to assimilate the facts that you are alive, healthier and… willing to spend time with a blunderer such as myself.’

Arthur shook his head. He had forgotten how self-doubting they both could be sometimes. That was definitely not going to make things easier between them – but since when had Arthur wanted easy?

‘Well, then,’ he answered as he reached out to place his hand on Albert’s, ‘you should definitely stay to get used to all that.’ 

Then, he gripped his hand and pulled him up on his feet, standing up as well. Albert’s eyes widened at the sudden movement, and Arthur slowly walk backward, dragging the photographer with him to the bed.

‘And maybe _I_ should make myself clearer, about _willing_ to spend time with you.’

Albert’s clear laugh echoed in the cabin, and soon turned into quieter, sultrier sounds.

***

So, for a couple of days, Albert stayed with Arthur, and the homestead became their own private world, where they would talk and laugh and have sex and just enjoy each other’s company whenever they wanted, however they wanted.

During those few days, Arthur taught him how to start a proper fire, hunt down rabbits and fire a gun. Basically, everything Albert should have known since he had decided to try his hand at wildlife photography. Some tasks were better executed than others, but, as he usually did with anything, Albert put his heart into learning them. And into rewarding his teacher accordingly. 

Arthur also opened to Albert about some of his past: how Dutch and Hosea had taken care of him as he was just a wild delinquent, shaping him into the man he was now, for better or for worse. How, despite his better judgment, he had grown fond of the skinny and cranky little John that Dutch brought to camp one day. How he had almost quit the gang for Mary, before they became estranged from one another because of her father. 

In return, Arthur learned that, same as him, Albert had become an orphan much too early in his life. He had been raised by his grandmother, who loved him dearly – but it was his grandfather who introduced him to photography, being the proud owner of a daguerreotype. The ability to freeze moments of life for eternity quickly turned into an obsession, and Albert ended up spending hours learning the art of photography. 

After the death of his grandparents, Albert, fascinated by transcendentalists and adventurous writers such as Herman Melville, decided to use all the money they had left him to study natural history in Harvard and maybe start a career as a naturalist. But photography was calling him and, eventually, he went back to Saint Denis, where he had grown up, to look for a job to improve his skills. 

That explained why he was a city man through and through, with a whimsical approach of the wilderness.

That also explained why he went speechless when, one afternoon, as they were wandering into the woods next to the cabin, Arthur modestly showed him his sketch of a particular orchid he had seen a while ago in the bayou. Albert’s hazel eyes went from his journal to his face to his journal again. Then, he extended his hand and asked excitedly: 

‘Can I see your other sketches?’

Arthur blushed. Beyond the fact that he put down most of his thoughts in this journal, he had also drawn an embarrassing number of portraits of the man who was standing in front of him. 

Noticing his silence, Albert quickly withdrew his hand and muttered: 

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…’

‘No, no, it’s fine, Al. It’s just that… I also write in it.’

Albert seemed even more enthralled by that piece of information. 

‘I promise you I won’t read a single word.’

Arthur searched the photographer’s face for a moment. He realized he had nothing to hide from him anyway, since he had told him almost everything about his life. Almost.

‘Go ahead, then.’

He handed him his journal, and watched with equal embarrassment and delight Albert’s eyes going wider with every page he turned. The photographer also blushed when he saw a sketch of his very own naked body lying on Arthur’s bed. He closed the small leather book and cleared his throat before giving it back to the other man, who was staring at him expectantly.

‘Arthur,’ he murmured reverently, ‘your drawings… They are amazing! Sharply detailed, accurate, and definitely splendid. Not only are you a man of Nature - you are also a true artist.’

Arthur scratched the back of his neck.

‘Don’t know if you can call me that…’

‘Trust me: you are. Despite my lack of talent, I can recognize one when I see one.’

Arthur was about to reprimand Albert for telling this nonsense over and over again, but the photographer had approached him silently, and he peered around them before pulling Arthur closer for a quick kiss.

‘Now,’ he added after having taken some safe steps back, ‘you _must_ show me where you killed that poor grizzly bear!’ 

Arthur saw an interested twinkle appear in his eyes as he asked him: ‘Did you sketch it, too?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes, I did.’ 

‘What did I tell you? A true artist.’

Arthur rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a smile from spreading on his lips as he watched the photographer skip away joyfully.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Albert clumsily holding a gun in front of him]

_‘I just put Albert back on a train to Saint Denis. It was hard not to kiss him goodbye. We spent a few days together at the homestead, and I can’t recall the last time I’ve been so happy. Albert is so very unique. Can barely hunt or make a fire – but he’s damn smart, and funny. And very talented with his hands in lots of different situations. He invited me to his apartment, and I can’t wait to see him again already. Like a damn teenager. But, let’s face it: it feels very nice.’_


	14. Laying Ghosts

Arthur was riding home after a hard day’s work at the stable. He had quickly figured out that Robert and he were seeing eye to eye about horses, how to treat them with respect, and he had even managed to impress his boss with his knowledge of those fine animals. He was still having trouble taming Sam, though. In his skittish behavior, the young stable boy was painfully reminding him of Kieran. He hoped he wouldn’t bring a similar fate on him. 

When Arthur spotted a huge Mustang he had never seen before grazing near his cabin, he made Buell slow down and trot carefully toward the beast, his right hand placed on his holster. To his surprise, during all those months, he hadn’t had any unwanted visitors, yet – maybe that would be his first.

However, the sight that greeted him made him grin widely and drop his hand from his gun belt.

‘Sadie Adler! What a nice surprise!’

The woman seated on his front porch raised her head from the carbine repeater she was cleaning, and her face lightened immediately. She slid her weapon over her shoulder and stood up. With her bandolier and her long duster coat, she looked fiercer than ever.

‘The nice surprise is to see you alive and kicking, Arthur!’

The ex-outlaw dismounted his horse as she came to him, and they shared a tight hug. When he pulled away, she gave him a genuine smile and he squeezed her shoulder.

‘Come on in, I’ve got a bottle of fine whiskey waiting for us.’

‘Living a fancy life, now, are you?’

Arthur snorted and gestured around him.

‘Sure, fancier than the life we had, anyway. Just helped a feller ambushed by some wolves, he gave me the bottle as a thank you.’

Sadie playfully clapped his back as she said:

‘Still saving fellers as need saving, then.’

Arthur felt a sudden lump in his throat upon hearing Dutch’s words. There _were_ some good things he had taught him, things Arthur hadn’t wanted to throw away with everything else.

They entered the cabin and Arthur gallantly pulled out a chair for his friend. Sadie rolled her eyes at his antics and he gave her a playful grin. She sat anyway, shaking her head, and Arthur grabbed the bottle from the cabinet under the sink. As he filled up two glasses, he asked her:

‘How did you find me?’

‘I met Charles a few weeks ago when he was traveling up north. Told me you was living here.’

Arthur placed a glass in front of Sadie and looked her in the eye.

‘I owe him my life, you know.’

‘I know,’ she answered him as she held his gaze. ‘He told me everything.’

Arthur sat down in front of her and they drank silently. He could feel her concern gaze on him, but didn’t want to open up about all this just yet. When he refilled their glasses, Sadie asked cautiously: 

‘How are you feeling now?’

Arthur thought about his last night at Beaver Hollow, the cold winter that followed, the sickness he endured, the injuries he suffered; then, he thought about Charles’ unwavering support, the Marstons’ happiness, Albert’s contagious joy.

‘Much better. Think I’m getting used to this new life.’

A soft smile appeared on Sadie’s lips.

‘Good. I’m happy for you, Arthur. You’re a good man, you deserve it.’

Maybe if he heard this sentence enough, Arthur thought, he would end up truly believing it. 

‘What about you, Mrs. Adler? What’ve you been up to, those last months?’

‘Me? Bounties mostly, and some other stuff, good and bad… You interested?’

‘In good stuff or bad stuff?’ Arthur quipped, which made her snort in her drink.

‘In bounties, you idiot.’

Arthur shook his head. The long days of recovery had given him plenty of time to reflect on his violent side – maybe too much. Even for money, and whatever they may have done, he didn’t see the point of running after people like him, who were trying to avoid the law. As of now, he wanted to draw his gun as little as possible. 

‘No, thank you very much. I’m done with all this.’

For a moment, Sadie searched his face, her own unreadable. Maybe she didn’t believe him – even he was having trouble believing himself about that sometimes. At least, he was trying.

After a while, she raised her glass and nodded to him. 

‘Duly noted, _Mr. Miller_.’

She emptied it in one swig, put it back on the table and stared at it thoughtfully. 

‘And what about Micah?’

Arthur frowned at her.

‘What about him?’

‘Well, after what happened, John and I kind of vowed to kill the son of a bitch.’

Arthur had a vivid memory of Sadie covered in O’Driscolls’ blood at Hanging Dog Ranch. He knew they had a very different opinion on the matter of revenge. And he hoped John did too, now that he was moving on. 

‘I don’t wanna waste my time chasing him either,’ he said firmly. ‘What good would it bring?’

‘Relief?’

Arthur scoffed. Deep down, he knew she was partly true: maybe Micah was chasing _him_. He was aware the rat was another threat lurking in the dark. But he had also made up his mind about this: he would rather live his life lying low than wasting it dealing with his enemies. He had tried that once, and it nearly sent him six feet under. And now that Albert was involved, there was no way he was going to put _his_ life at risk.

‘If something happens, you know you can always count on me. But until then, I’d rather let all this behind.’

Sadie raised her hands in front of her in surrender.

‘Okay, Arthur, I understand. And I respect that. Honestly, I prefer hearing you talking about life, not ghosts.’

They exchanged a knowing look, then Arthur asked her:

‘Talking about ghosts, have you seen anyone of the gang recently?’

‘Except for you and Charles, no, no one. You?’

‘We went to see the Marstons – sorry, the _Miltons_ – a few weeks ago. They’ve settled in Pronghorn Ranch, in Big Valley.’

‘Oh yeah, Charles told me that! How are they?’

‘Good, I think. John’s working there, Abigail at some doctor’s office in Strawberry, and Jack keeps growing up.’

‘I’m so glad for them. They deserve to be happy, too. Abigail was always so kind to me.’

Arthur noticed the far-off look on her face. He hadn’t forget her helplessness when they had taken her in, and how the women of the camp had done their best to help her cope with her grief. How she had pulled through everything life had thrown at her.

‘Yeah, she’s a great woman. Just like you.’

Sadie smacked his arm, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed her true emotion.

Arthur offered her to stay for dinner then, and she gladly accepted the invitation. 

During winter, he had mostly relied on Charles’ cooking skills, a blessed substitute for Pearson; but since the man had left, Arthur had returned to his basic meals, which mostly consisted of lightly seasoned meat or fish if he was lucky, canned beans if he was not. Sadie didn’t seem to mind, as she ate heartily while giving him sassy retorts about memories he was sharing with her. Perfectly aware that romantic relationships was a sensitive topic for his friend, Arthur purposely avoided bringing up Albert. She didn’t raise the subject either.

When they had finished the bottle of whiskey, Arthur accompanied Sadie outside, both cackling and slightly wobbling. After her third attempt, she finally mounted her horse, and she slurred over her shoulder: 

‘I’m in the saloon in Valentine, most days. If you ever need another drink. Or anything else, at all.’

‘Thanks, Sadie. I’ll take you up on that.’

‘You’d better. Take care of yourself, Arthur.’

‘And you too, Mrs Adler.’

After a final nod, Arthur watched her and her gigantic mount disappear into the night.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Sadie staring at the viewer, smirking, her braided hair partially covered by her carbine repeater resting on her shoulder]

_‘Sadie Adler paid me a visit tonight. It was good to see her. I’m glad to know she’s doing okay, after everything she went through. She’s a bounty hunter now – one hell of a woman. And one hell of a friend, too. I’m sure Albert would love her. I hope we’ll see each other again soon, even if just for a drink. No more wild ride, no more bloodshed. Here’s hoping, anyway.’_


	15. Picture Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there such a thing as too much fluff, I wonder…

April flew by and Arthur barely noticed it. He was too busy working at Robert’s stables and helping folks along the way whenever he could. He was also entirely obsessed with his growing feelings toward Albert. 

Since their last meeting, the photographer eventually came back to O’Creagh’s Run at least once a week, and Arthur never got tired of having him around. He couldn’t stop marveling at the fact that, despite their many differences, they complemented each other so well in lots of ways. He had never felt something so strong for anyone, even for Mary. Albert knew a lot about him, about what he had done, had even witnessed it too closely – Arthur was still having nightmares about that awful day at the bank – and yet, he accepted him as he was and kept coming back to him. 

Hosea’s words were still engraved in his mind: _‘If you ever got the chance to meet someone you truly love, and who loves you back for who you are – not like Miss Gillis – please, seize it. Start a new life with this person.’_

Arthur would forever wonder if, that same day, Hosea had asked him about Albert because he _knew_. The old man had always been as smart as a whip. And he missed him so much. 

Despite his deep affection for Albert, Arthur was dragging his feet to go see him in Saint Denis. He had never liked the city, its suffocating atmosphere, its narrowed streets, its corrupted cops. He barely found comfort in what Albert appreciated about it – the fact that it never slept, that anyone could find anything they wanted. But, somehow, whom he wanted was living there. 

So, one Sunday morning, Arthur decided it was time for him to repay Albert’s infinite patience.

***

When Arthur entered the familiar courtyard, he felt a strange, unpleasant sensation settle in his chest: the last time he had been there, he was dying, and he hadn’t seized the opportunity to see Albert ‘one last time’.

But it was different now, and he intended to seize the opportunity to replace those gruesome memories with happier ones. 

Hoping the man was home, Arthur climbed the stairs leading to Albert’s apartment and knocked on the door. Shortly after, the photographer opened it, and his face brightened instantly. A contagious smile spread on Arthur’s lips, and he waited for the door to be closed again to press Albert against it, not bothering to say hello and kissing him instead. The other man didn’t seem annoyed by that in the slightest, as he reciprocated immediately, his arms circling his neck. Then, he quickly shut off the blinds and led Arthur to his bed. 

If they had to be quieter in an apartment in Saint Denis than in a cabin into the woods, it didn’t stop them from enjoying themselves equally. 

‘I must say, Mr. Morgan, that I’m particularly fond of this habit of ours to greet each other,’ Albert declared a while later, lounging naked in bed while watching his lover get dressed, his back to him.

Arthur’s lips stretched into a smile as he buttoned up his shirt. He secretly enjoyed the fact that Albert was still calling him by his real surname behind closed doors. 

‘Me too. If I’d known you was so good at greetings…’

‘Oh, hush now.’

Arthur turned around and his smile widened when he saw the red painted on Albert’s cheeks. He sat down on the bed in front of the photographer and leaned forward to lightly kiss his neck, earning him a soft sigh of contentment. 

‘What made you change your mind, about coming here in Saint Denis?’ Albert murmured, one of his hands running through the other man’s hair.

Arthur pulled away and observed Albert’s curious face. 

He could have answered him openly, told him that it was the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about him, that he wanted to be as kind to the man as he was to him, that he needed to create other memories of this place with him, that he lov… 

Instead, he resorted to mischief and said:

‘The local fauna.’

Albert rolled his eyes and the blush on his cheeks got redder. Satisfied with his reaction, Arthur added innocently:

‘I meant the pictures you had to show me.’

The photographer smacked his arm, but a smile appeared on his lips nonetheless.

‘Are you done having fun at my expense?’

He didn’t wait for an answer and stood up from the bed, arranging the sheets around himself into a makeshift robe. Arthur chuckled as he watched, in the barely lit apartment, his half-naked lover walk barefoot to his chest of drawers and rummage through it. He noticed the brand-new phonograph sitting on it, and quickly chased the painful thought of Dutch away, before it could really settle in. 

Albert victoriously pulled out a folder from one of the drawers, came back to the bed and handed it to him. He struck a match to light a lamp on the side table and sat down, as Arthur silently admired the various prints Albert had developed: there was the legendary fox he had told him about when they had reunited; but also of the legendary boar and coyote. 

Next to him, Albert was restless:

‘I didn’t see all the animals documented on the map you left me, yet. As you can see, I didn’t cross the border of the state of Lemoyne. You know as well as I do that I can’t travel this country all by myself without risking being eaten by some wild creature.’

‘Or falling off a cliff.’

At his words, Albert stood still, and Arthur glanced in his direction. The photographer was frowning at him, and one of the words he had learned to associate with his lover came to his mind: _adorable_.

‘You will never live this one down, will you?’

‘Probably not,’ Arthur answered playfully, and he leaned forward to kiss the lines of annoyance on the other man’s forehead. Then, he added: 

‘We could go on a photography trip together, if you want. You’d try to get yourself eaten and I’d try to protect you, like the good old days.’

The frown disappeared suddenly as Albert’s face lightened. 

‘Would you, now? Oh, Arthur, that would be fantastic!’

Arthur gave him a genuine smile and shook the print he had in his hand.

‘You really need to carry on your project, Al. Those pictures are beautiful. As someone very wise I know said to me recently, _‘you are a true artist’_.’

Albert wrinkled his nose.

‘That someone may be wise, but I doubt this sentence could apply to…’

Arthur shut him up with a kiss before he had a chance to finish his sentence.

‘Stop being so damn hard on yourself, Albert.’

The photographer looked at him in awe, which made Arthur self-conscious and blush. When Albert saw the red tinting his face, a sudden glint appeared in his eyes, and he reached for the collar of the other man’s shirt.

‘If this is your way of trying to convince me, I may never do so.’

It was Arthur’s turn to roll his eyes as Albert lied back on the bed, pulling him down with him, folder and prints forgotten as they scattered onto the floor.

*** 

Later in the afternoon, they strolled down to Saint Denis’ market – Albert had insisted on buying some fresh vegetables for dinner – and Arthur had to light a cigarette on the way to fight the urge to take the photographer’s hand in his. O’Creagh’s Run was giving them far more privacy, making him forget the reality of the world they were living in.

After their purchase, they passed the trapper and the man gave Arthur a slight nod. That gesture didn’t go unnoticed by Albert, who arched an eyebrow at him.

‘I sell pelts for money sometimes,’ Arthur explained as he shrugged, unsurprisingly causing the photographer to shudder.

‘Perhaps I should give you back some of the amount you left me, so you don’t have to…’

‘Arthur?’

Both men turned around to see the person who owned that voice, and Arthur was probably as astonished as the two women who were staring at him when he found himself face-to-face with them. 

Suddenly, Mary-Beth threw her arms around his neck as Tilly gave him a blinding smile. Arthur quickly returned the embrace, glancing around them to make sure they weren’t attracting too much attention, glaring if needed. Then, Mary-Beth pulled away and looked at him with her big blue eyes.

‘Oh, Arthur, we thought…’

‘And yet, here I am,’ he said shortly, receiving Tilly’s hug in turn.

‘Let’s have a drink, to celebrate!’

Tilly nodded her approval, then extended her hand toward Albert, who was watching the whole scene with a genuine smile.

‘Good afternoon, Mr. Mason,’ she said, and Arthur’s jaw dropped. ‘I didn’t know you were a friend of Arthur.’

Albert glanced at him and seemed suddenly very proud of being able to surprise him. He made a show of kissing the offered hand and replied:

‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Pierre. I didn’t know you were a friend of Arthur either.’

‘You two know each other?’ Arthur asked, dumbfounded, before the meaning of Albert’s words dawned on him: ‘Wait… _Mrs. Pierre_? What the hell is going on, here?’

Albert stifled a laugh as Tilly explained with a sly smile:

‘Mr. Mason here took pictures of me and my husband after our wedding.’

Arthur’s gaze traveled between the three cheerful faces that were looking at him. After a while, he gathered himself and declared:

‘Yeah, I think we definitely need a drink to celebrate!’

They all laughed as he led the merry group to Doyle’s tavern.

***

More than one drink proved to be necessary to catch up on what had happened for all of them after Beaver Hollow.

After Tilly left the Marstons at Copperhead Landing, she and Mary-Beth lived in a boarding house together in Saint-Denis, using the money Arthur had given them. One day, they attended a high society party where Tilly met an amicable lawyer, and they quickly married and moved in together in a big mansion in the city. Mary-Beth, who had stayed in the boarding house, tried her hand at writing romance novels under the pen name of Leslie Dupont – and Arthur wasn’t surprised to learn that she had since become a successful author. 

On their second drink, when Arthur brought up Karen, the two women stared at their glasses and told him that they had never heard of her ever since Beaver Hollow. Nobody said it out loud, but the state she was in in the end didn’t leave much doubt as what might have happened to her. Arthur still wished he could have done something to pull her out of their mess. 

On their third drink, Arthur told them about his own path following the break-up of the gang, and purposely avoided the subject of the nature of his relationship with Albert. 

On their fourth drink, as they were sharing fond memories about their old life, Arthur noticed that Albert was all ears, eager to learn more about him, as always. Arthur pretended he didn’t care, but couldn’t stop a shiver from running down his spine when his eyes met the photographer’s intense ones. Then, their thighs brushed under the table and Arthur choked on his whiskey. If Tilly simply cast him a questioning glance, Mary-Beth kept smiling at him mischievously. Maybe it was time for them to leave.

As they said their goodbyes in front of the saloon, Arthur saw out of the corner of his eye Mary-Beth lean into Albert’s ear to murmur something to him. The blush that crept on the photographer’s face as his eyes drifted away was unmistakable. They all shared hugs, promising to see each other soon, and as they were heading back to Albert’s apartment, Arthur noticed that the photographer seemed lost in his thoughts.

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Mmh?’

‘Mary-Beth. Unless you don’t wanna tell me, of course.’

Albert glanced around them before his eyes settled on Arthur’s face, and he whispered quickly: ‘Later.’

Arthur nodded and they came back to the apartment in an unusual silence on Albert’s part. When they arrived, Arthur set the vegetables on the table and turned around to see that the photographer was staring at him, his back against the door, his eyes shining, his hands fiddling nervously with his hat. 

‘Something wrong?’

Albert started to laugh and Arthur felt suddenly very confused.

‘Good heavens, no, nothing’s wrong. Quite the contrary, actually.’

He dropped his hat on his bed, came up into Arthur’s personal space and stared straight into his eyes.

‘Mary-Beth told me that you were a keeper and I was a very lucky man.’

Arthur huffed and looked away to hide his embarrassment. Of course, Mary-Beth, feeding on romance novels, had seen right through them. 

‘I think she got it wrong. It’s more the other way around.’

‘Is it, now?’

Arthur’s eyes returned on his lover’s, still shining. He finally realized that they were reflecting admiration for the man they were settled on – and it was overwhelming. 

‘Albert…’

The photographer raised a hand and gently placed it on Arthur’s chest:

‘No, I… Please, Arthur, let me speak first. There is something I need to tell you.’

Arthur relented and let Albert sit them down on the chairs. The other man took Arthur’s hands in his, stared at their joined fingers, inhaled deeply and started to speak:

‘Ever since we met, I have been privileged to see how helpful, and selfless, and brave you are. And then… Then, you made the first move, and I discovered that, underneath all this, you are also sensitive, and caring, and loyal. I know that you don’t like to hear this, but you are a remarkable man, Arthur Morgan. Whenever I’m with you, I feel safe, and worshiped, and I… I wish I could keep you, yes. Because I love you.’

Arthur listened quietly to the praise he was given as warmth filled his chest. He was certainly not going to argue with him now. When the three words escaped Albert’s lips, the photographer raised his head to look at him, and a tear finally fell from one of his eyes and rolled down his cheek. Arthur reached out to wipe it gently with his thumb and whispered:

‘I love you too, Albert. What you say means a lot to me… _You_ mean a lot to me.’

The photographer closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, smiling. His hand still holding his gripped a little tighter. Arthur admired the gorgeous face in front of him for a moment, then added in a soft voice:

‘You know, if that’s really what you want, you can keep me. I’m all yours.’

Albert opened his eyes again.

‘Did I tell you that I love you?’

Arthur chuckled and cradled Albert’s face between his hands to pull him closer.

‘I think you just did, Mr. Mason’, he murmured against his lips, ‘but I don’t mind hearing it again.’ 

***

[Arthur’s journal]  
_‘Spring keeps bringing me friendly faces. Today, it was Mary-Beth and Tilly – Mrs. Pierre! Everyone is moving on, and it’s a great thing to see. As for me, I still get that nagging feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be, yet… But I guess at least I’m with whom I’m supposed to be._  
_AM ♡ AM’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that Arthur drawing hearts in his journal _is canon._


	16. Old Habits Never Die

Arthur was on his way back to Robert’s stables after having spent most of his day taming wild Mustangs in the Heartlands. A few days ago, Charles, back from Canada, had dropped by O’Creagh’s Run. During their discussion, he had told him he had spotted a herd there, and Arthur had seized the opportunity to come back to this part of the country, reminiscing about good memories of the gang. 

The sun was slowly downing, casting his golden rays on the land, when he arrived at his place of work. Despite the peaceful scenery, Arthur sensed something was off immediately, only to have his feeling confirmed when he spotted Robert’s dog lying motionless on the path leading there. There was definitely something going on. 

He cursed himself for not traveling with his artillery anymore; at least, he still had his trusty gun belt resting on his hips wherever he went. 

Arthur made Buell and the two Mustangs he had tamed maintain their pace and go left along the railroad tracks, and stopped them a little further down the road. There, he hitched the horses to a tree, reassured them with a few pats and returned discreetly to the stables, keeping his head low and his feet light. 

As he got closer, he heard voices coming from inside the building – ugly-sounding voices he didn’t recognize:

‘… I’d prefer that one, he’s prettier!’

‘We don’t want pretty horses, you fool, we want fast horses! Which is the fastest, boy?’

No answer came. Then, Arthur heard a loud thud, followed by the sound of a body collapsing onto the floor.

‘Fucking animals,’ Robert’s voice hissed.

‘Shut the hell up! Give us your fastest horses!’

Arthur stood up and entered the stable inconspicuously. He took a quick look around to assess the situation: Sam was lying unconscious on the floor a few feet away from him, and Robert was held at gunpoint by a disgusting man, while three others, dressed in filthy, torn clothes, were looking at the antsy horses in their stalls. The Murfree Brood. 

Arthur saw red. He had almost forgotten the sensation of seeing friends under threat; but he could still remember the caves of Beaver Hollow, the horrors he had seen there, the poor girl he had brought home after the hell she had endured.

‘We don’t give horses here – we _sell_ them.’

The four men twisted around when they heard Arthur’s menacing voice. The ugliest one sneered and took a step toward him.

‘We ain’t here to buy horses, mister. We’re here to _take_ them.’

Arthur let out a nasty laugh, a noise he hadn’t heard in a long time. He didn’t like how it sounded.

‘I’d advise you not to do that.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or that.’

As quick as lightning, Arthur drew his revolver and shot in the hand of the man threatening Robert. He fell down on his knees, crying and holding his bloody fist against his chest. Upon seeing this, the others went for drawing their own gun, but they weren’t fast enough: Arthur shot them one by one in cold-blood. He didn’t think, he just acted. As soon as his weapon had left his holster, his old reflexes had come back, and anything else had been switched off – so he could do what he had been the best at during all those years: fight.

Somebody suddenly hurled at him from behind, screaming, and, in the next second, Arthur was eating dirt, his revolver flying away from his grip under the impact. 

There was a fifth man; Arthur hadn’t checked the whole perimeter before diving head-first into action. Those quiet months in the woods had rendered him careless. 

The Murfree violently pulled him onto his back and threw a clumsy punch in his face. He didn’t miss his nose though, and Arthur shouted as he felt a sharp pain there. His mind went blank as adrenaline kicked in; and it wasn’t until he felt a strong hand gripping his arm that he realized that, somehow during the struggle, he had gained the upper hand and had beaten up the man underneath him, over and over again. 

‘Alright, Arthur. I think he’s had enough.’

The trance he had been in suddenly vanished, and Arthur looked at the bloody face of the man whizzing underneath him, then at the corpses lying on the ground. The implications of what he had just done dawned on him, and he scrambled to his feet as if he had just received another blow.

‘The other?’ he asked, wiping the blood off his nose and nodding to where the first man he had shot had been.

‘Poor bastard ran away. Doubt he’ll come back anytime soon.’

Arthur remained silent and avoided meeting Robert’s inquisitive eyes as he went to crouch next to Sam. He carefully placed his hand where he had been hit on the head: there was some blood and a nasty bump already forming. He gave the boy gentle slaps to wake him, and was relieved to see the young man’s eyes quickly focusing on his face.

‘Hey, Sam. You okay?’

The boy nodded slowly and Arthur helped him sit down. Sam didn’t seem too confused, but he winced when he touched the back of his head, then paled when he saw his hand coming back with blood. Arthur squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before taking his bandana off his neck to apply it on the wound.

‘It’s okay, Sam. I reckon you'll have a hell of headache, but it should go away in a few hours.’

The boy's eyes went wide as he looked around him, before settling on Arthur again.

‘You… shot them?’

The ex-outlaw winced.

‘I did, yeah.’

Arthur stood up, picked up his hat and revolver and went back to Robert, who was still staring at him thoughtfully.

‘Was it the first time?’ Arthur asked, hiding his eyes under the brim of his hat while holstering his gun.

‘Yeah. I’ve never seen the Murfree Brood coming this close.’

‘You should keep a rifle in here, you know.’

‘I don’t know how to use one – but I bet _you_ do.’ 

Once again, Arthur kept quiet. He took it upon himself to drag the bodies out of the stable – surely enough, the beat-up man had died in the meantime – then came back, mindlessly wiping his bloody hands on his shirt. Robert was examining Sam’s head, and when he approached them, they both looked up at him expectantly. Arthur nervously scratched the back of his neck, still averting his gaze.

‘I brought you two tamed Mustangs, they’re down there. I have to go now.’

The answer he got wasn’t one he had expected:

‘Thank you, Arthur.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Still embarrassed, Arthur just tipped his hat at them and walked back to Buell. The poor horse was edgy, probably because of the gun shots; and so was his master. He made him galloped along the railroad tracks and away from this place, in the direction of Saint Denis. 

Unfortunately, he had an appointment with Albert tonight, and he didn’t want to be late and be a source of worry. He just hoped he would have enough time on the road to settle his nerves. 

Arthur didn’t feel guilty about what had happened at the stables: Robert and Sam had been under threat and the Murfrees had wanted to steal from them. It had only been natural he prevented it the best way he could. What he felt guilty about was precisely _how_ he had prevented it: the best way he could was killing folk. He clearly remembered writing in his journal, a few weeks ago after Sadie’s visit, _‘no more bloodshed’_ – and, as he had suspected it, it had been a damn lie. Bloodshed was all he was capable of. Always had been; always will be.

***

Arthur only remembered that his clothes were stained with Murfrees’ blood _after_ he had just knocked on Albert’s door. The photographer opened it and his eyes went wide when he saw the state he was in. Arthur cursed himself for being so careless, again. After all, it had been a long time since he had wandered around with someone else’s blood on him.

‘Good heavens, Arthur! What happened? Are you okay?’

Arthur huffed as he walked by Albert to enter his apartment.

‘I’m fine, Albert, don’t get excited.’

‘Well, I don’t like to see you hurt, can you blame me?’

Arthur stood still in the room and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was not going to take it out on Albert. The man didn’t deserve this.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled as he turned around.

The photographer was standing by the closed door, sporting a neutral mask, and he searched his face for a moment, before gesturing toward his bed.

‘Please, sit down. Get rid of that… shirt, while I take care of your injuries.’

‘Al, there’s no need…’

Albert walked up to him and gently grabbed his upper arm to lead him to the bed.

‘Please, Arthur. Indulge me.’

‘Okay.’

Arthur did as he was told and sat on the mattress, unbuttoning his shirt. After a moment, Albert came back with a wet cloth, kneeled in front of him and started to dab on his nose, quietly. Despite the pain still throbbing in his face, Arthur stood still and watched his lover intensely. He was so careful with everything he handled, and the present moment was no exception. He wasn’t meeting his eyes, though. Probably waiting for Arthur to speak, if he wanted to. Arthur knew he didn’t owe him any explanation, but he wanted to give him one anyway. He also wanted to get it out of his chest – something Albert had encouraged him to do, as an effective way to feel better. 

‘There was a bunch of nasty men at Robert’s stables when I came back this afternoon. Murfrees. They was trying to steal his horses and I… stopped them.’

Albert interrupted his ministrations and finally looked into his eyes. The neutral mask disappeared as lines of concern creased his face. The photographer was smart, and he knew him: he perfectly understood what ‘stopped’ meant in this context. 

However, after a moment of silent consideration, the wrinkles between his eyebrows smoothed, and he resumed what he had been doing. 

‘Then I guess you did what you had to do,’ he said quietly.

Arthur grabbed his wrist and saw Albert’s gaze travel to his bruised knuckles.

‘No, you don’t understand, Al,’ he replied, frustrated, as he let go of the other man. ‘I could’ve hogtied them, knocked them cold, threatened them to never come back again – instead, I slaughtered them, and I didn’t even feel a damn thing.’

Albert carefully settled his hands on Arthur’s knees, his eyes resting on his face again.

‘Well, obviously you’re feeling something right now.’

‘It ain’t like that,’ Arthur grumbled. 

He fell silent, and Albert patiently waited for him to go on, standing still in front of him. Arthur looked down at those graceful fingers resting on his thighs, those hands only capable of care and creation. Those hands so different from his own. 

‘I’m a fucking murderer,’ Arthur finally blurted out, and his voice cracked, ever so slightly. ‘And I’ll always be. I thought I could change, but…’

Albert put a hand on his cheek and forced him to look him in the eyes.

‘That is not true, Arthur. Old habits die hard. You’ve been… brought up this way. What matters is that you want to change. Who you were is not relevant, not anymore.’

Arthur stared at those familiar hazel eyes, before insisting:

‘I was, and still am, a damn beast.’

‘No, you are not.’

Albert suddenly stood up and went to his phonograph. He chose a record, placed it on the machine and played it. Arthur recognized the song immediately: it was one he had already heard at camp, when Dutch was in high spirits. It brought back bittersweet memories. He stared at his lover who was looking at him from across the room, a soft smile on his lips.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Arthur asked, confused. 

‘Something I wanted to do for a long time.’

Albert went back in front of him and extended his hand.

‘Mr. Morgan, will you dance with me?’

Taken by surprise at the sudden change of mood, he shook his head and stood up slowly.

‘Sure, why not?’

He took Albert’s hand in his and they held each other’s waist, as they started to slowly sway to the music. Albert laid his head on Arthur’s shoulder and, after a moment, he asked quietly:

‘Tell me, Arthur: would a ‘damn beast’ be doing what we’re doing?’

Arthur closed his eyes as he rested his chin atop his lover’s head and allowed a small smile to spread on his lips. Albert was definitely too good to him.

‘No, probably not.’

They kept dancing silently for a while. Arthur tried to fully savor the tangible feeling of Albert’s body pressed against his own, his low breathing against his neck, the comforting smell of his hair reaching his nose; but his thoughts kept wandering to the bloody face of the Murfree who had assaulted him. He blinked to chase the image from his mind’s eye and murmured:

_‘These violent delights have violent ends.’_

Albert raised his head to look at him with an arched eyebrow.

‘Are you quoting me Shakespeare, now?’

Arthur slightly blushed.

‘I… borrowed the book from you a few days ago.’

Albert smiled at him knowingly, then laid back his head on its previous location.

‘Well,’ Arthur heard him whispered, ‘we may be star-crossed lovers, but we won’t end like them.’

‘And how would you know, exactly?’

‘I just do.’

Arthur rolled his eyes but kissed the crown of his head nonetheless.

‘Sometimes, I wonder who’s the biggest fool, me or you.’

He heard a soft chuckle before Albert answered:

‘Both, Mr. Morgan. That’s why we love each other.’

***

That night, Albert offered himself to Arthur unconditionally. Another unspoken gesture of love and trust, so the ex-outlaw could grasp the fact that he was more than a cold-blooded killer. That he was capable of both harm _and_ tenderness.

And if Arthur, overwhelmed by the events of the day and Albert’s infinite kindness, shed a single tear in the end, his lover didn’t say a word about it and only pulled him closer.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of bodies lying on the floor in a stable]

_‘Can I really be a better man?’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/16 - Update : Dear readers, since I've started publishing here, I've tried to keep regular updates (at least twice a week); but I'm currently wrestling with the next ones (can you guess why? *rubbing hands together*), so it might take a few extra days... No worries though *insert Dutch's voice here* I've got it all planned!   
> Thank you for your patience and support, and see you very soon!


	17. Wildest Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller Chapters & Closer Updates vs. Longer Chapters & Further Updates – a Quandary.  
> Anyway, I didn’t want to cut this one in half for narrative reasons and to allow you to enjoy the whole ‘thing’ from the beginning to the end… Hopefully you will!

Arthur was waiting for Albert at Emerald Station, leaning against a pole and smoking a cigarette, enjoying the warm summer evening. 

It had been nearly two weeks since the Murfrees incident, but Arthur still couldn’t shake it off. Sensing his latent distress, Albert had brought back the idea of the photography trip, and Arthur had jumped on the occasion to take a few days off from work and go back into the wild with his lover. He just hoped he would have to protect him from animals only.

Before his departure, Robert had insisted that Arthur chose a horse from the ones he had for sale, as a thank-you gift. Ever since she had been brought at the stable, Arthur had had his eyes on a gentle brown Quarter mare that he was sure would be a perfect match for Albert. With this in mind, he had specifically asked him not to rent a horse from Theodore Eckhart’s stables and come to meet him by train. 

When it entered the station, Arthur crushed his cigarette under his boot and went to welcome the photographer. As usual when they reunited, Albert’s face lightened when he saw him, and Arthur gave him a warm smile before helping him to carry his bag and photography equipment. He pretended he didn’t hear the ‘such a gentleman’ comment and led them to the two horses that were peacefully grazing behind the wooden building. Arthur approached the mare and started to pack Albert’s belongings on the brand-new saddle. 

‘Let me introduce you to your new traveling companion,’ he said, as he observed Albert’s wide eyes traveling over the mare. ‘She’s a Quarter horse.’ 

Then, he secured the tripod along her flank and added innocently: ‘They say Jesse James had one, just like her.’

The photographer’s gaze finally settled on him and he playfully raised an eyebrow.

‘Is that why you’re offering her to me?’ he asked, and lowered his voice to continue: ‘To lure me into your old life?’

‘Yeah, ‘cause you sure as hell look like an outlaw to me.’

‘Stop it, you.’

Arthur smirked and walked around to stand next to Albert. He gently patted the mare’s neck, before casting a glance at his lover.

‘They also say Quarter horse is one of the kindest breeds of this country. Seems only natural for the kindest man I know.’

‘Arthur…’

‘Don’t start.’

Albert’s eyes searched his face and he hesitated for a moment before answering coyly:

‘Well, thank you, then.’

Arthur gave him a genuine smile and took a step back, waving at the horse standing peacefully in front of them.

‘How are you gonna call her?’

Albert looked at the mare pensively, one hand stroking his beard, the other gently caressing the flank of the horse. She turned her head toward him and blinked slowly, already at ease in his company. Arthur saw the photographer’s face lightened again as he turned around suddenly to look at him.

‘Llamrei.’

‘Llam – what now?’

‘Llamrei,’ he repeated simply, a twinkle in his eye. ‘This is the name of King’s Arthur’s mare.’

Arthur was actually familiar with this tale, having read it to Jack more than once. He couldn’t help the smile that spread on his lips. Albert went on excitedly:

‘I even think that the word ‘llam’ means ‘jump’ in Welsh, which is quite fitting for a blunderer such as myself, don’t you think?’

Arthur shook his head in amusement.

‘You’re too smart for me, Al.’ 

‘Don’t start.’

Arthur chuckled as he mounted Buell. Albert imitated him, and the mare didn’t seem troubled in the least by her new cavalier. The photographer leaned down and gently patted her neck, and Arthur noticed a smile forming on his face as something was obviously coming to his mind.

‘If I’m not mistaken,’ he said in a high-pitched voice that Arthur had learned to recognize as trouble, ‘they also say Quarter horse is the fastest breed, right?’

This time, Arthur outright laughed, catching up with his train of thought immediately.

‘Are _you_ challenging _me_ to a race, Mr. Mason?’

‘What if I am? Are you afraid to lose, Mr. _Miller_?’

‘Do you even know the way?’

‘Oh, I’m plenty familiar with these parts, thank you very much.’

‘Okay, see you at the homestead, then.’

And Arthur set Buell into a gallop. Over the past months, he had developed a solid bond with him, who was also an incredibly sturdy horse – so it wasn’t really a surprise when they arrived first at O’Creagh’s Run. 

However, Arthur barely had time to finish brushing Buell before spotting Albert and his new mare approaching from afar. He hadn’t had many occasions to observe the photographer riding, and he was weirdly pleased to find that the city man he had fallen for was also a very capable cavalier. 

Arthur mirrored Albert’s smile as he got closer and went to help him dismount, seizing the opportunity to finally touch him. 

‘You’ll never cease to amaze me, Al,’ he said in earnest, letting his fingers slowly slide on his back. 

‘Hopefully this will remain true for a while.’

‘Oh, I bet you it will.’

Arthur took Albert’s hat off his head and their gazes locked.

‘Thank you for the mare,’ the photographer whispered as his lover leaned toward him.

‘My pleasure,’ Arthur answered in a quiet voice, their lips inches apart. 

A horse nickering in the distance interrupted them, and they quickly turned around to see if there was any danger. When Arthur recognized the man approaching them, he realized the only danger they were risking was to be turned into wolves baits.

‘Hey, John!’

‘Hey, Arthur!’

His brother dismounted his mare and walked up to them. Arthur noticed that he had gained muscles and also seemed utterly exhausted. If he certainly had been working hard at the ranch, he felt that there was probably something more to it. However, John’s smile grew wider when his eyes settled on the photographer, looking at him with interest.

‘You must be Albert Mason.’

Arthur rolled his eyes at John’s eagerness to show off, but was pleasantly surprised when the man next to him extended his hand and replied:

‘That’s me indeed. And you must be John Marston… Or should I say Jim Milton? Either way, it’s very nice to meet you.’

Arthur had told Albert a lot about his brother, specifically the fact that the nosy bastard had found out about his feelings for Albert through his _personal journal_. This knowledge plus the unmistakable scars on his face, it was no wonder Albert had also recognized him instantly.

John gave Arthur a startled look as he shook the offered hand and wondered out loud:

‘What’s that smart feller doing with you?’

Arthur snorted.

‘A question I keep asking myself every day.’

It was Albert’s turn to roll his eyes before entering the cabin, shortly followed by the other two men smirking at each other. 

***

Albert offered to cook dinner and Arthur served them all a glass of whiskey in the meantime. When he handed his to John, he gave him a warm smile. 

‘It’s real good to see you, John, it’s been too long.’ 

He nodded at Albert as he added:

‘We’re taking a trip tomorrow, toward Big Valley, and I thought we could stop by Pronghorn Ranch to see you.’

John downed his whiskey in one go, which confirmed Arthur’s suspicion that something was off. 

‘It’s a good thing I came here first, then,’ he said in that raspy voice of his, ‘because I don’t live in Pronghorn Ranch anymore.’

Arthur immediately caught the implication of his sentence. 

‘What do you mean, ‘I’? What about Abigail and Jack?’

John looked down at his empty glass and started to fidget with it.

‘Well, they… Abigail left me and took Jack with her. A few days after you came by, actually.’

‘What happened?’ Arthur asked softly.

‘You know the nasty fellers I talked to you about? They didn’t stop, so I… helped to get rid of them.’

‘John, I told you…’

His brother suddenly slammed a hand on the table and glared at him. Behind him, Arthur heard Albert startled but he remained silent.

‘I know what you told me, but what choice did I have? I couldn’t stand by and watch, this is not who I am!’

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose before emptying his own glass. So far, he had successfully kept the Murfrees incident at bay – but not anymore.

He felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder, and turned to look at Albert, standing beside him. Of course, sensitive as he was, the photographer had understood how John’s words could resonate for him. His eyes were set on John though, and he said sympathetically:

‘I’m sorry about your family.’

John relaxed a bit at that, and he looked at him with curiosity again, before his gaze travel to his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He sighed deeply as he scrubbed a hand across his tired face.

‘Thank you. Actually, this was the bad news, but I also have good ones: I bought my own ranch! I even took a loan at a fucking bank!’

Arthur snorted as he refilled their glasses, and Albert came to sit with them, his own liquor still untouched.

‘And why the hell did you do that?’

‘I’ve been working my ass off at the ranch, but it ain’t enough, I still need more money. Abigail had told me about a piece of land she was interested in, Beecher’s Hope, north of Blackwater…’

Arthur choked on his drink and Albert looked at him, worried. The photographer was also aware of the mess that had triggered the downfall of the Van der Linde gang.

‘ _Blackwater_? Are you insane, John?!’

‘It’s been nearly two years, Arthur! They don’t have our posters out anymore!’

‘’Cause you’ve actually been there? Jesus, John…’

His brother didn’t back out and started to gesture wildly in front of him: 

‘Yeah, I went there, and there was no trouble, nobody recognized me. I even ran into Uncle wandering in the streets…’

‘No trouble, he says.’

‘Oh, shut up.’ 

John huffed as he leaned back in his chair, and he folded his arms across his chest, staring at the table.

‘I’m trying to change, Arthur. To do what’s best for my family.’

‘And I’m proud of you for it.’

John’s glare softened when he heard the sincere words of his brother, and it traveled to Arthur’s face then to Albert’s, who was observing the whole exchange quietly. 

‘Let’s change the subject,’ John declared suddenly as he reached for his glass again. ‘I don’t wanna bore Mr. Mason here to death.’

Albert made a small wave with his hand, smiling politely.

‘Oh, you’re not boring me at all. And please, call me Albert.’

Arthur noticed a lopsided grin forming on his brother’s face – a sign that meant trouble.

‘Okay, Albert. Let’s talk about you two, instead.’

He rolled his eyes as he saw the photographer averting his gaze, a blush creeping on his cheeks.

As much as John tried to press them on the subject, they didn’t talk about their relationship, both wanting to keep private the fragile intimacy they had been sharing and treasuring for more than a couple of months now. Instead, Albert told John about his life in Saint Denis and his ongoing photography project, using it as an excuse to praise his lover. Then, Arthur told his brother about his steady job at Robert’s stables since March, and if his voice lacked enthusiasm, none of the men pointed it out. However, John inconspicuously slipped into their conversation the work that had to be done at Beecher’s Hope. And yet again, at some point, they ended up talking about their old life, sharing dumb stories about the gang; and yet again, Arthur noticed the curious look on Albert’s face as he was looking at his lover and listening to them.

When they had finished their meal, Arthur offered John to stay for the night. His brother looked at him with a mischievous smile, and he just knew he was about to hear something crass:

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll set up camp a little further in the woods. I’d prefer not overhear anything.’

‘Shut up, Marston.’

‘What? I myself have been young and in love, once.’

‘Get out, now.’

Arthur grabbed the collar of John’s shirt, noticing Albert’s furious blushing out of the corner of his eye. The little shit let himself being dragged away, calling over his shoulder:

‘It was real nice meeting you, Albert!’

Arthur didn’t wait for Albert’s answer and pushed his brother out of the cabin. He joined him outside, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to John silently before placing one between his lips. He struck a match on the sole of his boot, lighted them both, took a long drag and exhaled slowly. When his eyes landed on his brother, the smile had disappeared from his face.

‘You okay, Arthur?’

‘Sure, why d’you ask?’

‘I don’t know, you seem… preoccupied.’

Arthur sighed. Of course, after years of living together, a few months apart wouldn’t change the fact that they could read each other like a book. Arthur glanced over his shoulder at the open door, then walked away to stand on the small wooden pier by the lake. John followed him and remained quiet at his side, waiting for him to speak his mind. 

‘How exactly did you get rid of the folks bothering you at Pronghorn Ranch?’

John’s gaze traveled from Arthur’s face to the still body of water in front of them, eyebrows pulled together. He explained in details what had happened that night at Hanging Dog Ranch, from the shoot-out to the final point-blank execution. When he was done, the older man asked him:

‘How did you feel, afterward?’

John cast him a questioning glance, still frowning. 

‘What d’you mean, how did I feel? I felt nothing, I just did what had to be done, that’s all.’

Arthur let out a long sigh as he looked at the reflection of the moon in the water. 

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right… Maybe I was naïve, but I thought we were done with the killing.’

Then, he in turn explained to John what had happened at Robert’s stables a few days ago. 

‘Is that why your nose seems even more broken than before?’

Arthur just glared at his brother, and the younger man shrugged, suppressing a smirk. Then, he became serious again, and rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

‘Look, I’m not saying that it’s a good thing, but we both know how to use a gun. And even if we’re trying to move on, the world we live in is still the same unforgiving one. That ain’t gonna change anytime soon. So if we have to pull the trigger once in a while, well, that’s just the way it is.’

For a moment, Arthur stared quietly at his brother. He had reached that same conclusion after mulling it over and over again; but it was comforting to hear it from someone who was just like him. 

He mirrored his gesture and squeezed his brother’s shoulder as he said:

‘I guess you really did grow up, John Marston.’

John huffed as he threw away his cigarette stub into the lake.

‘I’m trying anyway.’

‘Well, keep trying. You’re doing good. I’m sure Abigail will come around eventually.’

‘Yeah, I hope she will.’

They walked back to John’s mare silently, his brother’s concern obvious on his face. He mounted her and gave her a few pats on the neck before forcing a smile and saying:

‘Albert’s a really nice feller. I’m happy for you, Arthur.’

‘Yes, he is… Thanks, John.’ 

‘You’re both welcome to come to Beecher’s Hope, anytime.’

‘We will.’

Arthur approached him and lightly squeezed his knee, before John spurred his mare forward. He observed his brother ride away, reflecting on the path he had chosen. He sincerely hoped it would soon lead to the return of his wife and kid by his side. 

As he went back inside the cabin, he saw that Albert was already in bed, reading by the light of a lamp on the mantelpiece. The man had cleared up the table and Arthur took it upon himself to wash the dishes before joining him. 

‘Your brother is a very amiable young man,’ he heard his lover say.

‘You’ve seen him in a good day,’ he quipped back.

He didn’t see Albert rolling his eyes, too focused on the task at hand. The photographer went on:

‘Are you going to help him with his ranch?’

‘Eventually, sure. Why?’

‘I was just wondering.’

Arthur didn’t press the matter, having not thinking it through yet. 

Once he was done, he dried his hands and went to sit on the mattress next to Albert. He looked at the leather cover held in front of him.

‘ _’Journey to the Center of the Earth’_? Is that even possible?’

Albert chuckled as he lowered the book.

‘This is fiction, my dear. And an amazing adventure novel, at that. Its French author, Jules Verne, has an overflowing imagination.’

‘I ain’t surprised you like it, then.’

Albert offered him a soft smile and gestured at another book he had placed on Arthur’s pillow. It was Mark Twain’s _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_. 

‘I brought this one for you, so you won’t have to _steal_ it from me the next time you come to my apartment.’

Arthur rolled his eyes as he reached for it to flip through the pages.

‘ _Borrow_ , you mean. And I’ve already read it, but thanks anyway.’

Albert’s smile grew wider in appreciation.

‘You know, one day, you’ll have to make me a list of all the books you’ve already read, so I can give you new ones. It would be my pleasure to make a modest contribution to keep entertained that wonderful brain of yours.’

‘Sure,’ Arthur replied simply as he picked up both books before placing them at the foot of the bed. 

Then, he looked at his lover with a lopsided grin, and Albert spoke before he had time to do so himself:

‘Make a single joke about another of my ‘modest contribution’ you’d like, and you won’t have any.’

Arthur burst out laughing as he stood up and started to undress.

‘You already know me too well, Al.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ the photographer answered conversationally, his hand slowly stroking his beard, ostentatiously reveling in the show in front of him. ‘More that my mind is as twisted as yours.’

Arthur turned around, now completely naked, and stared down at Albert, who had the faintest blush on his cheeks.

‘Yours words, not mine,’ he replied mischievously, hands on his hips.

‘Yes, yes’, Albert said impatiently, standing up on his knees on the mattress. ‘Now, will you come to bed already?’

‘Ain’t you an eager feller,’ Arthur laughed as he let himself being pulled down on the bed.

‘Quiet, now,’ Albert instructed as he straddled his hips.

‘And bossy,’ Arthur added, before his arms were pinned above his head. 

‘Don’t you like that about me?’ Albert asked innocently as he leaned down to kiss his jaw.

‘Oh, I do, Mr. Mason,’ Arthur’s voice now barely a whisper. ‘I do.’

In the end, they were both grateful John had declined the invitation to stay for the night.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of John’s face, the following quote scribbled underneath: _‘If we have to pull the trigger once in a while, that’s just the way it is.’_ ]

***

The next morning, Arthur waited for Albert to wake up, and they ate a light breakfast before hitting the road. Arthur had offered the photographer to go see the legendary buck near Black Bone Forest in Big Valley, far out west, so they had a long journey ahead.

When they arrived in Valentine, the sun was already high in the sky, darting its burning rays on their exposed skin. They made a quick stop in town to buy some supplies at the general store for their trip, and ammunition for Arthur’s weapons – he couldn’t be too careful when traveling with the danger-magnet that was Albert.

After that, Arthur offered to head toward Caliban’s Seat, so the photographer could try to take pictures of the eagles again, while he would take a nap in the cool shade of a tree. 

They made another few halts in the afternoon, and Arthur used it as an excuse to do some more sketches of his lover, focused on his art. He also noticed several discreet glances Albert had been throwing in his direction all day, but he didn’t question it. If Albert had something to say to him, he would when he would feel the need to do so; they had time on their hands, and this thought in itself was pleasant enough. Meanwhile, they shared their different but complementary knowledge about the nature surrounding them.

The sun was finally hiding behind the mountains when they stopped by Cumberland Falls, and Albert marveled at the sight with effusion, before they used the last rays of light to go up the river to catch some fishes for their dinner. Arthur was pleased to see that Albert had improved on his fishing skills since its first lesson, months ago. 

Then, they rode up and set up camp not far from Wallace Station. Albert insisted on making the fire and, for the second time that day, Arthur was proud to see that the photographer could now definitely manage on his own out there. Unless there was an angry animal involved, of course. He didn’t voice this idea, though; for selfish reasons, he wanted to keep accompanying Albert on his photography trips. After all, it had been the foundation of their relationship; and it was probably why he felt so content to share a meal with Albert by the fire after such a day, as a revival of the first thing that made them fall for each other.

The heat of the summer night made them decide against setting up the tent, and they lied down on their bedroll on both side of the fire. Arthur quietly gazed at the stars, his thoughts hundreds miles away. It felt definitely good to be on the road again, and to roam the open country with Albert. The man was a real chatterbox, but, somehow, he had an inkling that he would never stop to find it endearing. 

The distant howl of a coyote brought him back to reality, and he turned his head to look at his lover. The man was observing him over the dying flames and, when their eyes met, he offered him a small smile. Despite his growing curiosity for Albert’s behavior toward him, he mirrored it and wished him a quiet good night. They quickly fell asleep, still facing each other.

***

Arthur woke up early the next morning, and as he opened his eyes to the dim blue light and noticed the silence surrounding them, he realized that dawn was not there yet. He watched with fondness Albert, who was still asleep, the top of his head poking out of his bedroll. Then, something came to him, and he smiled as he stood up to start the fire again and prepare some coffee. The sounds he made stirred Albert from his sleep, and he grumbled as he rolled over to present him with his back. Arthur chuckled – he had learned that Albert, unlike him, was far from being a morning person – and went to crouch in front of him.

‘Albert,’ he called, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Mmh?’

‘There’s something I’d like to do.’

‘Isn’t it _very_ early?’

‘Precisely. Come on, love.’

The unexpected affectionate name convinced Albert to sit, albeit reluctantly. Arthur handed him a hot cup of coffee, looked at his ruffled hair and sleepy face with amusement, and indulged himself as he planted a kiss on his forehead. Albert hummed and sipped the beverage, his eyes closed. 

‘And you call _me_ eccentric.’

‘Come on, Al. Humor me.’

‘Mmh. You’re lucky I can’t resist your charms.’

Arthur waited patiently for his lover to drink his coffee and stretch up, then he led them further away from their camp, on the other side of the road. He sat on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Dakota River they had crossed the previous day, and invited Albert to do the same. The photographer yawned as he complied, and they waited silently, listening to birds starting to chirp joyfully in the trees surrounding them.

When the sun began to rise, flooding the canyon with its soft light, Arthur felt a sudden warmth fill his chest. It was not the first sunrise he had witnessed since that fatal day, but certainly the first with Albert. He hoped they would be able to share many more like this, so he could eventually erase from his mind the one he had thought would be his last.

‘Thank you for this, Arthur,’ Albert murmured next to him after a moment, his eyes riveted on the sight evolving in front of them. ‘It’s beautiful.’ 

Arthur simply hummed and reached to squeeze his hand briefly before returning his own to his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Albert turned his head to look at him. In a low voice, he said:

‘You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you…’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s just that… I’ve noticed how happy you are when you’re talking about your old life with your friends, how relaxed you’ve been since we’ve started this trip, and I… I’m just wondering if _this_ is really what you want.’

Arthur interrupted his contemplation to stare at his lover, puzzled.

‘Of course this is really what I want. _You_ make me happy, Al.’

Albert started to fidget with his fingers on his laps, sunrise completely forgotten.

‘I know, I know. Although I’m still wondering why sometimes… But I feel like there’s something else. Since I’ve known you, I’ve always seen you helping other people: it used to be your gang; now it’s your brother, Robert, me… But what do _you_ want?’

‘What do you mean?’

The photographer changed his tack and nervously combed his graceful fingers through his hair.

‘I mean I told you all about my love for nature, my project that I certainly couldn’t carry on without you. But you, what is your wildest dream, your biggest fantasy? What do you want for yourself, in this new life you’ve been given?’

The truth was, that question had haunted him through all winter. In some way, living with Charles during his recovery had soothed his anxieties. Then, he had got on with his work at Robert’s stables and had started whatever they had with Albert; and this existential question had gone away, for a while. But something had been bugging him the last few weeks, and now that Albert was asking him this out loud, he realized it was that very same question, coming back again to weigh on his mind. 

He sighed as he looked away, pink light starting to turn golden. 

‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly.

There was a quiet, heavy moment, full of doubts, hanging between them. Then, Albert said softly:

‘I love you, Arthur, and I want you to be happy. Really, completely happy. You’ve been through so much already and…’

His voice cracked and Arthur looked back at him; at his expressive hazel eyes set on his face, at the red highlights of his beard shining in the morning light. When his lover spoke again, it was just above a whisper: 

‘I’m asking you to think about it – about what you want. Just for you.’

Arthur waited for an early cavalier to ride past them before reaching for Albert’s hand once again, this time to hold it firmly in his.

‘What did I do to deserve you?’ he wondered out loud, receiving a coy smile in return. 

The photographer glanced around them, making sure they were completely alone, before he brought Arthur’s hand to his lips to kiss it gently. He kept it there afterward and murmured against his skin:

‘You saved my life then turned it upside down for the better.’

Arthur squeezed the photographer’s hand, too overwhelmed to speak, and they went back to their camp silently, shoulders bumping, hearts full of their love for each other.

***

After having taken care of Buell and Llamrei and torn down their camp, they went back on the road toward their final destination.

As they crossed Big Valley and its vast fields of purple flowers, and despite having been there once to immortalize the wolves – something they both remembered as a shared near-death-experience – Albert insisted on making a halt to capture the sight. 

A couple of hours later, when Arthur made out the silhouettes of Black Bone Forest’s dead trees, he wordlessly urged Albert to dismount Llamrei and take his photography equipment with him; as for him, he repressed his own reflex to retrieve his rifle from Buell’s saddle. Then, they both crouched to the ground and kept their heads low, as Arthur tracked the legendary buck, under Albert’s appreciative gaze. 

When they finally spotted it, they took a moment to silently admire the magnificent animal, grazing in the open area, its light brown and white short hair shimmering in the hard sun. 

The respectful silence was broken as Albert whispered:

‘You know, I was glad when you offered me to go see this legendary buck. It really is a majestic animal, peaceful but ready to defend itself if needs be... I kind of see it as your spirit animal.’

Arthur was taken aback by his lover’s reflection, because it was something he had already felt deep down, without really knowing why. He remained silent as he pondered this, while the photographer started to set up his camera, as quietly as he could. 

When he was sure that Albert was ready, he whistled loudly. The buck turned his head toward them, alert, and Albert used his photographer’s reflex to snap the perfect shot, scaring the animal off at the same time. Then, he looked at Arthur, beaming with delight. 

‘What would I do without you, my dear?’

‘Still taking beautiful pictures, I reckon.’

The grin remained on Albert’s lips as he moved around his photography equipment to place it in front of Arthur, who was observing him with an amused tenderness.

‘Stand still and stop being silly.’

‘Whatever you say, boss.’

Albert raised his head over his camera and looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

‘What did I just say?’

Arthur lifted the brim of his hat with his index finger to throw him a disarming smile, and the flash went off again.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Albert hunched over behind his photography equipment, surrounded by pine trees]

 _‘Albert was thrilled by the photography trip. And so was I. He almost got us attacked by a bear on our way back, spellbound as he was by its cub running around. I swear, that man couldn’t last a week on his own in the wilderness. Sometimes I wonder if he don’t do this on purpose, so I can feel useful by his side…_  
_He also asked me what I wanted, for myself. I couldn’t answer him right away – probably because no one ever asked me this. I can see now that no one ever cared for me as much as Albert do._  
_Sure, I miss being a part of a gang – of Dutch’s gang. These folk was my family for a long time. But I can still visit them sometimes – the ones still alive, that is._  
_I guess what I really want is something I’ve always been chasing after: freedom. Not settling down, not having my own place like John or a daily job like Albert. I’m a wanderer. I wanna keep discovering what’s out there, keep meeting outsiders, different people - be free, wherever I go._  
_But I know I’m being a damn fool again, being a ‘dead’ ex-outlaw and all.’_

[a sketch of the legendary buck’s head, its gaze directed at the viewer]


	18. Old Sins and Long Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, the chapter count increased and a new name appeared in the tags… Surprise, surprise.

Ever since their photography trip and Albert’s question about his dreams and desires, it had become increasingly difficult for Arthur to go back to work every day. Of course, he appreciated Robert, and Sam was finally tolerating him; but the thought that he didn’t belong there kept coming back at the forefront of his mind, no matter how hard he was trying to push it away. It had been more than six months since his pretended death, more than three months since he had decided to go on the straight and narrow – and he was already questioning it. Traveling the country again had given him a taste of freedom he hadn’t fully realized he had been missing all along until now. 

Despite all this, Arthur had woken up early this morning and had gone to work. He was still lost in those thoughts, brushing one of the stables’ horse mechanically, when he heard Robert approach behind him.

‘Pinkertons showed up yesterday, while you was away taming wild horses,’ he said matter-of-factly.

Fortunately, Arthur had a lot of practice in hiding his emotions. He kept tending to the horse innocently, his back still to Robert, despite the knot forming in his stomach.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. One of them was a feller named Ross. He asked me if I’d seen members of the Van der Linde gang, lately.’

So much for pretending: Arthur couldn’t help but freeze when he heard the name that had incarnated his shelter for so many years. 

‘Showed me some pretty realistic wanted posters.’

Arthur didn’t know what game Robert was playing at, but he didn’t want to take part in it anymore. He turned around, slowly, and put the brush on the table next to him before asking in a neutral voice: 

‘And what did you tell him?’

Their gazes locked and they stared at each other for a moment. Then, Robert’s eyes traveled to Arthur’s right hand, hovering over his holster.

‘That I’d have remembered those mugs.’

Arthur scrutinized the other man’s face, trying to assess if he was telling the truth or not. Robert withstood his piercing stare and gestured between them as he explained:

‘Look, Arthur, you saved our lives _and_ my business. I don’t care about who you were. And, if I understood correctly, you’re supposed to be dead, anyway.’

The knot in Arthur’s stomach loosened up a little, and he observed him a moment longer before saying: 

‘Thank you, Robert.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ the other man said genuinely, before walking to one of the stalls. 

Apparently, the subject was closed for him; but now that the truth was out, Arthur wanted to cover everything, just to be sure he wasn’t missing on anything. If the Pinkertons were still sniffing around, even months after the gang’s demise, it meant that his safety and the safety of those he cared about were at risk. He pressed him on: 

‘Did Ross mention anything else?’

Robert stopped his examination of the horse in front of him and stood still as he thought for a moment.

‘Actually, yeah, he did,’ he finally answered over his shoulder. ‘He was showing off because they had just caught one of them somewhere in Lemoyne. A German feller?’

His last words made Arthur’s blood ran cold as he gripped the handle of his holstered gun. 

They never had a German man in their gang; however, they used to live with someone from Austria – Strauss.

They had caught Leopold Strauss.

Robert was oblivious to his sudden distress as he went on, focused on the horse again:

‘Apparently, they had beat him up pretty badly and he’s about to crack, or so they said. Sleazy bastards.’

In the next minutes, Arthur had excused himself without waiting for Robert’s approval, grabbed his hat and mounted Buell, spurring him toward the city. He couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat, and his mind was a complete mess as unanswered questions were twirling around.

What if Strauss talked? What would he say, anyway? Arthur had banished him from the gang just before things fell apart, revolted by his disgusting business. Strauss didn’t know a single thing about the rest of them – or did he? What if Dutch knew everything about Arthur’s and John’s lives, had reconnected with him and had told him everything? Arthur kept having that recurring thought, both ridiculous and somewhat terrifying, that their ex-mentor was secretly keeping track of them. And what about their money, stashed somewhere in Beaver Hollow? And the Blackwater money? Did he know anything about this? Had he kept his ledgers?

Before paranoia seized him completely, Arthur blocked all those stressful thoughts, and a single memory emerged from the emptiness: the day he had gone fishing with Jack in the Dakota River. He could still remember, crystal clear, Milton’s smug smile and Ross’ satisfied face as they were talking about the mercy killing of Mac Callander. 

No one deserved that. Not even a loan shark. 

Arthur was going to get him out of there.

***

Despite assuming that he was probably still in Lemoyne, Arthur had no clue about the location where Strauss could be held by the Pinkertons. All he knew was that he had to act fast. And if there was one person available and more qualified than anyone to help him find this kind of information, it was none other than the sweet, kind and especially cunning Mary-Beth Gaskill.

Arthur had kept in mind the name of the boarding house she was staying at in Saint Denis, and he rode Buell to one of the imposing buildings in the north of town, before hitching him and knock on the door. He didn’t have to wait long: an old, corpulent and intimidating woman opened it abruptly and stared at him with furrowed brows above inquisitive gray eyes. Arthur took off his hat immediately.

‘Good morning, Ma’am. I’m looking for Ms. Gaskill?’

‘Who’s asking?’

‘Arthur Miller.’

‘Wait here.’

She slammed the door in his face and Arthur huffed. This kind of lady always reminded him of Susan, and if she had been a harsh woman too, at least she had been polite. Most of the time.

He lighted a cigarette as he waited on the porch, looking at people passing by, all uncomfortable in their fancy clothes – it was almost noon, and the heat was practically unbearable. He brushed a hand over his eyebrows to swipe his own drops of sweat. Damn this city. He wondered how Albert was keeping it together, working in that small photography studio and its suffocating atmosphere during the summer.

When he heard the door open again, he turned around and the smiling face that greeted him brought a grin to his lips.

‘Hello, Mary-Beth.’

‘Arthur! I’m so glad to see you!’

He threw his cigarette away before embracing her. His shirt clung to his skin where she pressed herself against him and he pulled back, embarrassed; but she was still smiling at him.

‘Some nice company you’ve got there,’ he stated sardonically as he nodded toward the house.

‘Ms. Desmond is severe, but she takes good care of us,’ Mary-Beth answered softly. Then, her smile disappeared as she added: ‘She kind of reminds me of Ms. Grimshaw.’

Of course she did. They let a silent moment pass, in remembrance of their mutual friend. More than once, ever since Dutch had brought her into their gang, Arthur had thought that they were all very lucky to have this woman by their side. Another death on Micah’s bloody hands.

‘What brings you here?’ Mary-Beth finally asked him, putting a gentle hand on his arm.

‘Can we talk somewhere private?’

‘Sure, follow me!’

They rounded the house and arrived in a well maintained garden. Arthur put his hat back on his head and tilted it enough to hide his face from the sun, while Mary-Beth opened a lace umbrella. They walked silently for a while, close to each other, before Arthur said in a low voice: 

‘My boss told me that the Pinkertons have Strauss in custody.’

‘That’s terrible!’

‘Yes, and I’m gonna break him out of there, as soon as possible. But I don’t know where he is. And I was wondering if maybe you’d heard about this, now that you’re a member of high society.’

Mary-Beth let out a small laugh as she smoothed the front of her dress.

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ she confessed, before adding with a twinkle in her eye: ‘but I can investigate. I made a few acquaintances with the Saint Denis police force, so maybe they’ll know something about this?’

Arthur snorted at that.

‘Did you, now?’

‘Sure, why not? You must always be careful not to put all your eggs in one basket.’

Arthur shook his head as he smiled. Dutch had always known how to pick the women of his gang: of stunning beauty and astonishing brain. In short, the opposite of his men. 

‘Actually, you might be right,’ he went on. ‘The cops and the Pinkertons had been working together while we were creating a mess around here, so they probably still do.’

‘I’ll ask around.’

‘Thank you, Mary-Beth.’

They stopped by a small stone bridge, leading to the swamps further north, and they remained silent for a moment there, both pondering the situation. Then, Arthur asked:

‘Will it be enough time for you if we meet again tonight, at Doyle’s Tavern?’

‘Of course. Ten o’clock?’

‘Sure.’

They exchanged a smile and walked back to the house, Mary-Beth holding Arthur’s arm. In front of the door, she was about to go away, when he placed his hand on hers. She leveled her striking blue eyes with his, a silent question in them. 

‘Please, be careful.’

‘Always, Arthur.’

She placed a small kiss on his cheek and entered the house, gently closing the door behind her.

***

[Arthur’s journal]

 _‘Turns out, Pinkertons are still after us._  
_Maybe John did a good thing, by settling on the other side of the country. And apparently, they still believe I’m dead – but for how long?_  
_They caught Strauss, and I refuse to let him die in their hands. Sure, we had our disagreements; but we also used to be friends. And that’s a good enough reason for me. No one deserves to be left behind. Except Micah.’_


	19. Fleeting Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m just going to drop this chapter now and remain at your disposal in the comments section, in case you need to… vent.

Since he had to stay in that damn city for the day, Arthur decided to indulge himself in a tasty meal and a well-deserved bath. This last idea turned out to be entirely useless the moment he stepped a foot out of the building and a heat wave rolled over him. He swore under his breath as he mounted Buell to go wander around the docks, one of the few places of Saint Denis that was not crawling with cops. He tried to discreetly catch snippets of conversations here and there, but nothing turned out to be interesting enough concerning his current issue. At some point, he sat on the ground, his back against the wall of a small building facing the Lannahechee River, his hat tilted to cover his face, and dozed off, lulled by the water lapping at the wooden piers. 

He snapped awake as the horn of a large boat entering the docks blared, and he watched for a moment the passengers stepping out of it, no doubts coming from New York, if their lavish clothes and stupendous hats were any indication. Arthur then looked at the horizon turning pink as the sun was setting down. He still had some time before meeting Mary-Beth again. He went back to Buell and treated him to a sugar cube before taking his reins in his hand to walk with him tranquilly to Doyle’s Tavern. 

She finally appeared in the back room one hour and two beers later. Arthur had grown nervous as time went by, fighting against worst-case scenarios that kept popping into his mind, but he relaxed the minute he saw the smile on her face – a clear indication that she was bearing good news.

‘I know where he is,’ she declared in a low, satisfied voice as she sat down on the chair in front of him.

Arthur pushed his bottle in front of her but she declined with a polite gesture.

‘Where?’ he asked as he leaned down over the table.

She imitated him and gazed into his eyes.

‘You were right, the cops and the Pinkertons are still working together. He’s in the abandoned building behind the police station.’

‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Pretty sure, yes.’

Arthur raised an eyebrow at her.

‘Do I wanna know how the hell you find this out?’

She leaned back into her chair and threw him a bright smile, her hands resting on her thighs – the picture of innocence.

‘Do you?’

Arthur chuckled as he stood up. He went to get her a glass of gin to celebrate, squeezing her shoulder on the way. He came back with it, a third beer for him, and sat down again. Mary-Beth clinked her drink against his and took a small sip before asking:

‘So, how are you gonna pull this off?’

Arthur stared at his bottle for a while, thinking. During the day, he had considered every option he could think of, hoping that Strauss would be held somewhere private – not in the middle of fucking Saint Denis, surrounded by fucking cops. 

‘Well, first, it has to be at night. There’s no way I’m gonna do this in broad daylight and risk a shoot-out.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mary-Beth nod. He kept riding his train of thought, picturing in his head the imposing building of the police department and its second entry under the archway on its right. He had been there a few times last year, had even explored the backyard discreetly to see if he could find anything valuable at that time. 

‘The real problem is how to get in there,’ he went on, scratching absentmindedly the label on the bottle. ‘I could dress up like Dutch and Hosea used to do, but I’m far from being as good a comedian as they were, and I’m supposed to be dead. I don’t wanna take the chance to blow my cover either way.’

‘In short, you need a diversion to sneak in.’

Arthur raised his head as he caught the implication of her words immediately. Mary-Beth was still looking at him, still smiling. 

‘Mary-Beth, I can’t ask you to…’

‘You’re not asking me anything, Arthur. I’m offering you my help. Besides, I’ve always felt pity for poor Leopold.’

As Arthur stayed silent, mulling her proposition over, she stated her other arguments to try and persuade him:

‘They probably don’t know I was part of the gang; and if they do, they don’t know how I look like. I can distract them, attract as many of them as I can away from the police station. Meanwhile, you go in, you free him…’

‘… And we go straight to the docks so he can take a boat to New York.’

‘Quick, discreet, efficient.’

Arthur observed the young woman in front of him. Despite her calm demeanor, he could see in her sparkling blue eyes that she was excited by the prospect they were laying out. They had pulled off some scores together back then, and it had always gone well. Apart from being a daydreamer, she was also one of the most talented thief he knew – her and Abigail. 

‘I think we should do this tomorrow night,’ he finally said, keeping his voice low. ‘I don’t know how long Strauss is capable to endure this.’

‘Fine by me. Maybe we could meet around midnight at the gazebo nearby, you know the one where they play dominoes?’

‘Yeah, sounds good.’

They finished their drink and Arthur offered Mary-Beth to walk her home, Buell following them obediently. Despite the late hour, people were still outside, chatting with their friends, minding their own business. Arthur rolled his eyes at the irony of life as they passed by Lowenstein Loans boutique.

‘They will probably look for you, once they discover Strauss is missing,’ he said as he lighted a cigarette, taking a drag before handing it to her.

Mary-Beth brought it to her lips, inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke. She watched it dissipate before she answered him:

‘Well, let them try. If need be, I can lie to protect myself.’

‘Oh, I know you can, Ms. Gaskill,’ Arthur replied warmly. ‘But write to me afterward, to let me know you’re okay, alright?’

Mary-Beth turned her head to look at him, a genuine smile on her lips, and she gave him back his cigarette. 

‘Of course, Arthur. Where will you go?’

Arthur gazed at the moon partially covered by a lone cloud. Since he had decided to break Strauss out of Pinkertons custody, he had been thinking about what could be his next hiding place. There was no way in hell he would stay at Albert’s and compromise his safety. Plus, it was probably best if he put as much as distance as he could between him and Saint Denis for a while. O’Creagh’s Run was not far enough, and he was secretly hoping he could come back to the homestead someday in the near future. It was the closest of a steady home he had had in years, and he had grown unexpectedly fond of it. Probably because of the memories he had created there, with Albert. 

‘I think I’m gonna stay with John for a while, let the dust settle before coming back here,’ he finally said as he took a last drag and threw away the cigarette. ‘He’d bought a ranch for his family, you know. Beecher’s Hope, near Blackwater.’ 

‘Blackwater? That boy still got nerves.’

Arthur chuckled at Mary-Beth’s accurate observation.

‘Oh, he’s still a fool alright.’

The dirt floor turned into cobbled streets as they approached the fancy neighborhood where the boarding house was. Once they arrived in front of its porch, Mary-Beth stopped and faced him, her eyes sparkling again.

‘I’m excited about tomorrow night. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I think I missed this.’

Arthur fully understood what she meant. Despite his incessant qualms about all this, he had also been feeling a low vibration in his body for the past few hours, and he knew perfectly well what it was, having felt it for years before: the thrill of setting up the perfect scheme. 

‘I think I did, too,’ he confessed out loud, allowing a small smile to stretch his lips.

‘What did Albert say about it?’

His smile disappeared instantly.

‘I didn’t tell him. Yet.’

‘Oh.’

Mary-Beth scrutinized his face for a moment, and he knew what she could read on it. Arthur dreaded this conversation with him because he was certain it was not going to go well. 

‘Well, he knows who he’s dealing with,’ Mary-Beth said reassuringly after a moment.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Arthur replied as he kicked a stone, averting his gaze in doing so. ‘He knows who I am and that I’m trying to change. But sometimes, I think he’s blinded by his… feelings for me.’

‘He sure does have a lot of them, that much was obvious when I saw you boys together.’ 

Arthur raised his head to look at her again and felt his chest tightened. Because of the world they were living in, Albert and him had to carefully hide their relationship – and to know that, despite this unfairness, they appeared to belong together in the eyes of his friend was meaningful to him. 

As he remained silent, Mary-Beth gave him a small smile and put a gentle hand on his arm. 

‘Just talk to him, Arthur. Communication is key – or so the romance novels say.’

Arthur let out a chuckle at that.

‘Sure. Good night, Mary-Beth.’

‘Good night, Arthur. See you tomorrow!’

***

Maybe he was slightly drunk, or maybe he was too nervous to talk to Albert; in any case, Arthur found himself picking the lock of his lover’s door and entering his apartment quietly. The windows were wide open and a cool breeze was flowing through the room. It was better than nothing, and Arthur took off his hat, his boots, his gun belt and every last piece of clothes he could before lying next to his lover, who was only sporting his underwear. When the mattress dipped under his weight, Albert woke up with a start and clutched at his heart, before staring at the other man’s face, bathed in the moonlight.

‘Good heavens, Arthur! Did you just break into my apartment?’

‘I… Sorry.’

Albert lied back down with a sigh.

‘The perks of being in a relationship with an outlaw, I suppose.’

‘Ex-outlaw,’ Arthur countered as he turned on his side to look at him.

‘Oh, yes, sorry. Mr. Miller.’

Then, he fell silent, and there was a long, quiet moment, during which Arthur observed his lover staring at the ceiling. Something was bothering him, and Arthur felt like a fool for surprising him like this. But the truth was, he wanted to spend that last night with him, before God knows when. 

Tentatively, he placed his hand on Albert’s stomach and started to gently stroke the skin there with his thumb.

‘Did you come just to snuggle into my bed?’ his lover finally asked him, and if he sounded amused, there was also an underlying concern in the tone of his voice. He definitely knew him too well. 

‘Let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ Arthur mumbled, continuing his soothing gesture. 

‘Okay.’

Albert closed his eyes, and there was another moment of silence, before the photographer placed his hand over his and whispered in a voice tainted with sleep:

‘I’m glad you’re here.’

‘Me too, Al.’

Arthur stood still and waited. After a while, he heard Albert’s slow breathing, indicating that he had fallen back to sleep. He allowed himself to revel in his comforting presence for a moment longer, before slipping his hand out and roll on his back to also stare at the ceiling.

Despite his conversation with Mary-Beth, deep down, he still had the unpleasant feeling that Albert wasn’t going to like what he had to say to him. 

Overwhelmed by the heat and by his doubts, Arthur barely closed his eyes that night.

***

It was not so much the stuffy atmosphere as the morning light flooding the room that woke Arthur up. He glanced at Albert, who was somehow still fast asleep, definitely more used to this climate than he was. How he missed the fresh air of O’Creagh’s Run.

He got up as quietly as he could, put on his jeans and closed the blinds to block the unrelenting sun. Now wide awake, he grabbed his journal and sat down at the table, using the slight rays that were still passing through to draw Albert’s sleeping form and occupy his restless mind. But he was too tired and nervous to focus, and he barely finished his sketch before crossing it out, irritated. 

Trying something else, he went to make some coffee, and its earthy smell soon filled the room. 

‘Hello, handsome.’

Arthur turned around and saw Albert looking at him sleepily, a small smile on his lips. He returned it half-heartedly; but the photographer didn’t seem to notice, as he stood up and walked up to him to slide his arms around his neck and kiss him. Arthur reciprocated, but placed his hands on his lover’s hips to keep their damp skin from sticking together. Albert pulled away to look at him, an eyebrow raised as a silent question.

‘It’s too damn hot in here,’ Arthur grumbled.

The photographer took a step back and observed him as he quipped:

‘Someone’s in a good mood, this morning.’

Arthur scratched the back of his neck nervously as he silently watched Albert dressing up then pulling two cups out of a shelf. 

‘Sorry, I didn’t sleep well.’ 

His lover placed the cups on the table and came back to plant a kiss on his scruffy cheek, reaching for the coffee pot behind him as he did.

‘It’s okay. I know how you feel about Saint Denis _and_ about the heat – no doubt an unpleasant mix for you. I hope you’ll sleep better tonight.’

Arthur suppressed a snort; knowing what was ahead, he highly doubted that. 

They both sat down at the table and sipped their beverage in silence. When Albert realized that Arthur wasn’t going to explain why he was here right away, he took it upon himself to start the conversation: 

‘I finally began to work on the prints I’ve made during our trip, they really are something! I think you’ll like them.’

‘I don’t doubt that.’

‘I’m thinking about asking Monsieur Laurent for another exhibition at his gallery, that is, if he finds them good enough for it, of course.’

‘I’m sure he will.’

They fell silent again, and Arthur could see out of the corner of his eye that the other man was staring at him warily. After a while, he pressed on:

‘Arthur, dear, are you going to tell me why you came here unannounced last night? Don’t get me wrong, I’m always happy to see you. But I fear this isn’t just a social call.’

‘You’re right, it’s not.’

Arthur kept fidgeting with his empty cup for a moment, then inhaled deeply and stated:

‘I’m going away soon, probably at John’s ranch, so we won’t see each other for a while.’

‘Why? I mean, why are you going away now? Is it about the Pinkerton Agency?’

Arthur finally raised his eyes to meet Albert’s, concerned.

‘Why would you say that?’

‘I think I saw some agents walking around in Saint Denis, but I’m not sure… But they think you’re dead, right?’

‘Right.’

Albert leaned over the table and gently placed his hand on Arthur’s. 

‘Arthur, what is it?’

‘They captured a member of the gang.’

He felt Albert’s hand squeezing in apprehension.

‘Who?’

‘A man I must’ve told you briefly about: Leopold Strauss.’

‘Your bookkeeper?’

‘Yes.’

‘The one you banished from your camp?’

‘Yes.’

Of course Albert remembered; he was able to commit to memory every single detail he had heard or seen. He let go off his hand and straightened in his chair, pouring himself more coffee. 

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But what does this have to do with anything? Are you afraid he’s going to sell you or the others out? He probably doesn’t know anything about all of you now – it’s been months.’

Arthur remained silent as he stood up and went to look through the blinds, his back to Albert. He waited for the other man to connect the dots, unable to face him. After a moment, the photographer must surely have, because he said in a firm voice:

‘… No. Arthur. Don’t do that.’

‘I have to get him out of there,’ the ex-outlaw replied as firmly, holding his hands tight behind his back. 

‘No, you don’t have to! We’ve talked about this, you don’t have to do anything for anyone anymore! You’re free from all this!’

‘ _‘Free’_ , right. In what world, Albert?’

‘In this world! After all the precautions you’ve taken – your ‘death’, your appearance, your way of life – you’re going to throw all this away for… for a crook?’

Arthur finally turned around at that, outraged, and all his pent-up nervousness about this conversation made him explode: 

‘This ‘crook’ used to be family!’ he replied in a too loud voice.

‘Yes, exactly! ‘Used to be’!’ 

Albert started to gesture wildly in front of him, almost knocking his cup on the way. 

‘When are you going to think about yourself? Don’t you have any instinct of self-preservation?’

‘Oh, you’re one to talk!’ 

‘We’re not talking about me!’ Albert replied as he stood up fiercely, his own voice getting increasingly louder. ‘We’re talking about you, going straight into the lion’s den for someone that belongs in your past! You already had your redemption, you already saved all the people you could save, what more do you want? Is it guilt, because of what you did to him? What are you trying to prove to yourself?’ 

Arthur didn’t want to hear this anymore. Albert was raising too many questions, questions he didn’t want to think about for the most part. Lately, he had come to realize that he didn’t share Albert’s vision about his past: who he had been was just as relevant as who he was now, and he had decided that he was going to stop fighting this truth. He just knew he had to do this, and there was no point trying to argue over it, because he wasn’t going to change his mind.

He crossed the room in a few strides and picked up the rest of his clothes to put them on. Out of the corner if his eye, he could see that Albert had closed his eyes and was probably struggling to calm himself down. After a moment, he spoke again, this time trying to be as neutral as possible:

‘You have moved on, Arthur. Don’t go back to that dangerous path, please.’

Arthur scoffed meanly as he turned to fully face him, and the words escaped his lips before he had time to ponder their effect:

‘I've _‘moved on’_? Moved on to what exactly? Being a stable boy and seeing you once in a while? That ain’t a life.’

Albert visibly flinched as he took the blow, hard, and had to lean against the table behind him for support. 

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He knew he shouldn’t have said that, knew that they were all his decisions and Albert had never been anything but supportive since he had opened up to him about his true self, all those months ago. But, as usual, his quick temper got the best of him. 

Even the kindest people had their limits, and if Arthur could certainly not read Albert’s mind, he knew the man was about to retaliate when his face turned into an angry mask – something he had never seen yet, despite knowing him for more than a year. 

‘You know what, Arthur Morgan? I think you’re afraid,’ he spat, and something akin to indignation flared into Arthur’s guts. ‘You’re afraid to live a better life, one of your own, one that doesn’t include doing the dirty work for someone else!’

Arthur was so furious with this allegation that he started to yell at him, raising his hands in the air as he did so:

‘Oh, _you_ wanna talk to _me_ about fear and better life? Let’s talk about that pathetic job you’ve had for years in that disgusting city, how you’re wasting your talent in that stupid studio, when all you wanna do is being a goddamn wildlife photographer!’

‘Don’t you dare turn this on me!’ Albert yelled back, even louder, as he pointed an accusing finger in his direction.

‘Then stop judging my choices!’

‘Arthur, this is not about choices, this is suicide!’

Their screams were suddenly replaced by a heavy silence, and they glared at each other from their opposite sides of the room, chest heaving. They were having their first fight, and it was an ugly one. After what had just been said, by both of them, Arthur knew there was no way they were going to be able to fix this anytime soon – or even fix this at all. 

‘I’m done arguing with you,’ he declared, his tone final.

He went to grab his journal on the table, placed it in his satchel, then snatched his hat from the chest of drawers. When he glanced at Albert, he saw desperation painted all over his face; but he was too mad to address it. He went straight to the exit and grasped the knob. He unlocked it and opened the door forcefully as Albert’s voice raised behind him, anger now replaced by fear:

‘Arthur, I’m begging you. Don’t do that. What if it’s a trap?’

Arthur left his lover’s question unanswered and his distress uncared for as he slammed the door of his apartment behind him.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a crossed out sketch of Albert sleeping, the following word scribbled and underlined several times underneath it: _‘ruined’_ ]


	20. Back in Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: there has been a lot of fluff lately, with our boys getting together and enjoying themselves; but this is still a RDR fanfic, mainly focused on Arthur dealing with the downfall of the Van der Linde gang and what it entails for him… I served you angst in the previous chapter, and here you’ll have violence (nothing gratuitous though – I’m not into that sort of thing).  
> Now, also a fair reminder: it has a happy ending.  
> I hope you’ll still appreciate it!

Arthur was a complete mess when he came back to O’Creagh’s Run that same morning. He was angry at himself for saying those things to Albert; angry at Albert for not trying to understand what this meant to him; and angry at themselves for letting their precious relationship take this awful turn. 

He was also utterly exhausted, and desperate to sleep on all those upsetting feelings. After having taken care of Buell, he went straight to his bed, throwing his hat on the way, and collapsed fully dressed onto the mattress.

***

_It was so dark Arthur couldn’t see a thing, and his heart was beating so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear anything else. Frantic, he extended his hands in front of him and felt something resembling a door. He pushed it warily, and when he saw what was behind, lighted by the flames of a small lamp on a table, the erratic pace of his heart came to a brutal halt._

 _There was nothing left but silence as he stared at Albert, tied up to a chair, his head hanging low as blood was dripping on his pants underneath. When he heard Arthur come in, he raised a bruised face toward him and his eyes opened wide in fear._

_Arthur desperately wanted to reassure him, to tell him some comforting lies; but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t utter a sound._

_‘He told you it was a trap,’ a threatening voice said behind him, and if Arthur somehow knew it was Ross, he was also sure as hell that this voice belonged to Dutch. But he couldn’t move any of his limbs either to face the man._

_He was frozen to the spot, forced to endure the sight in front of him. Albert closed his eyes in defeat, and Arthur saw tears mingling with blood in his beard._

_‘Do you know what your problem is, Arthur?’ Ross/Dutch went on. ‘You never listen. You don’t. Have. Faith. Not in yourself, not in anyone.’_

_He felt cold metal being pressed on the back of his neck, then heard the hammer of a gun being cocked._

_He saw Albert suddenly vanish from the chair, and it was his voice that came from behind him this time, laced with that anger he had never heard until this very morning:_

_‘Maybe you should have died on that mountain, months ago. Save us all the trouble.’_

Arthur woke up with a start as an imaginary blast resonated in his head. He brought a shaking hand to the back of his neck, the sensation of the barrel there still feeling very real. He was drenched in sweat and, this time, it had nothing to do with the summer heat. 

His subconscious had just sent him perfectly clear messages, but he didn’t have the time nor the desire to delve into them; not now, and probably not ever. 

He sat slowly on his bed and waited for his breath to return to normal, before getting rid of his old clothes and put on new, darker ones. He lifted his mattress and took all the money he had earned at the stable those past months. He placed the clips in his satchel, picked up all his weapons and ammunition lying around, retrieved the few belongings he still had, placed his hat on his head and walked to the door. 

There, Arthur turned around and took a long last look at the room: once filled with despair, it had been turned into a home with Charles’ help, before witnessing the growing love between him and Albert. He was leaving it after a moment of despair. The circle was complete.

***

Robert didn’t seem surprised in the least when, at the end of the day, Arthur appeared to thank him for having given him a chance, and to tell him that he wasn’t coming back. Arthur left him his old carbine repeater and ruffled Sam’s hair on his way back to Buell.

His horse was following his every movement, his ears pricked and his tail flickering nervously in the air, as if he could sense the emotional state of his master. Arthur took the time to give him an apple and gently stroke his neck, as he whispered reassuring words to him. When he sensed Buell had calmed down, he mounted him and tipped his hat at Robert and Sam, who had been observing him the whole time.

Somehow, he knew it was the last time they were seeing each other, and he sincerely hoped it was not because something bad could soon happen to any of them.

***

Lightning strikes were irregularly illuminating the dark sky as thunder was rumbling in the distance when Arthur entered the south of Saint Denis. The heat was more unbearable than ever, forecasting a heavy summer rain in the near future. His dreadful nightmare was still floating in the back of his mind, but he had had time on the way to get mentally ready for what was lying ahead. As he was crossing the bridge leading to the city, he had managed to switch off anything that wasn’t required for the job – mostly anything related to Albert.

He made Buell casually trot to the docks to find a safe, quiet place for him to stay. He dismounted him, gave one last gentle pat on his neck, then took a detour to reach the meeting point, thus avoiding the front of the police station – for now. Large drops started to fall from the sky, soaking his already dampened clothes. 

Mary-Beth was waiting for him, sheltered under the gazebo, when he arrived. She was wearing one of those expensive dresses he had seen at the mayor’s party, and a lace veil was smartly covering her face. She was smiling at him with confidence. 

‘Good evening, Ms. Gaskill,’ he said as he bowed exaggeratedly. ‘You look ravishing.’

‘Why, thank you, Mr. Miller,’ she answered as she feigned to be flattered, before taking a closer look at him. ‘But you don’t look so good. Something’s wrong?’

‘Nothing serious, don’t worry,’ he dismissed quickly, before asking: ‘What did you cook up for tonight’s show?’

Mary-Beth turned around and waved discreetly at someone. Lightning struck, and Arthur’s jaw dropped when he recognized the head that was poking out from behind the corner of a wall: it was Cleet, the little shit that had tried to rob him last year. Lucky for Arthur, he had changed too much physically for the other way round to be true, and the boy barely glanced at him before disappearing quickly. 

‘I asked the street kids their help,’ Mary-Beth explained matter-of-factly as she faced him again. 

Then, she violently pulled at one of her sleeves and ripped the tissue of her dress. A sly smile stretched her lips as she added: 

‘They’re going to make some useful racket.’

Arthur kept his mouth open to ask her:

‘Just how many eggs baskets do you have, exactly?’

Mary-Beth let out a small laugh at that.

‘Hopefully, as many as I need. Some more expensive than others, though.’

***

After having insisted for her to take some of his savings to pay Cleet and his buddies, Arthur took advantage of the pouring rain to go hide behind the thick poles on the other side of the street, near the police station. There, he pulled out his revolver and checked that it was fully loaded. By sheer reflex, he then touched his hunting knife stowed in its sheath. His objectives for tonight was to be as stealthy as possible and to hurt the fewer people he could. Coming to term with his violent side in this life didn’t mean he had to be as trigger-happy as he was in the previous one. ‘Once in a while’, John had said – only when necessary. He was about to figure out how necessary it was going to be in order to break Strauss free.

A moment later, Mary-Beth ran down the street, yelling and crying, and she burst into the police station, paying no attention to the stunned faces of the two soaking cops guarding the entry. Then, muffled by the rain, Arthur thought he heard the familiar sounds of rifles being shot, probably in the vicinity of Harris Square, followed by several screams. Five minutes later, a dozen cops spilled out of the building and rushed north toward the chaos. 

Arthur shook his head as a small smile spread on his lips. He – and Strauss – owed her, big time. Assuming he was still alive and Arthur could get him out of there. Time for him to take action. 

He stole a glance from behind the pole where he was hiding and saw that the two cops were still in front of the main entrance; another one was standing under the archway next to the building that led to the backyard. The three of them were looking in the direction of the fleeing squad. 

Arthur seized the opportunity and ran across the street toward the solitary cop, as close to the ground as he could. He didn’t stop when the man turned his head toward him in surprise, and used his momentum to tackle him to the ground and knock him cold by a swift punch in his face. 

He quickly dragged the unconscious man into the stables on his left, tied him up and gagged him for good measure. Then, he took another quick glance, and saw that there wasn’t a single soul pacing the backyard. Either Mary-Beth’s distraction was very efficient indeed, or Albert was right, and it was a trap. The residue of his nightmare assaulted him, and he chased it away. Whatever the situation was, he needed to stay focused.

Arthur waited for the next lightning to strike, then walked along the wall of the stables, thunder rumbling closer, and finally reached the door of the abandoned building. He entered it quickly as he heard someone stepping outside the police station on his right. He closed the door as quietly as possible, pulled out his hunting knife and waited in the dark, his back flat against the wet wall of the corridor. It gave him enough time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and when he was sure no one was coming in his direction, he checked the rooms aligned in front of him, one by one. They were all empty. A sense of dread crept up in his chest and, once again, he had to fight it away. 

There was a staircase at the end of the hallway, and Arthur climbed the steps slowly, practically on his knees. He stood still as he heard someone sigh loudly above him.

‘Why does it always have to be so fucking hot in here?’ a man’s voice complained out loud while moving away from him.

 _You tell me_ , Arthur thought ironically as he sheathed his knife. 

He climbed the last stairs, pressed himself against the wall and risked a glance on the left, over his shoulder. No cop uniform, just a soaking shirt with rolled-up sleeves; the man was most certainly a Pinkerton. The annoyed agent had his back to him, and Arthur hurriedly sneaked behind him before sliding his arm around his throat and squeeze. The man struggled for a moment, reaching desperately behind him, accidentally scratching Arthur’s face at the same time, and he had to tighten his hold before the body finally went limp against him. Once again, he tied up and gagged the man, then opened the door on his left to drag him inside. 

He froze when a lightning flash illuminated what was on the other side of the door. Very comparable to his nightmare, Strauss was tied up to a chair, his clothes a mess, his face badly injured, his broken glasses lying on the floor away from him. When he heard the door open, he looked up and gave him a shocked stare.

‘Mr. Morgan?’ he croaked. 

Arthur dropped the unconscious agent on the ground and rushed in to free the man, picking up his glasses on the way. Once again, he pulled out his knife and cut him loose, but when he helped Strauss getting up, the man hissed as he doubled over. 

‘I think… I have broken ribs, Mr. Morgan.’

Arthur huffed impatiently and placed one of Strauss’ arm over his shoulders, securing his own around his frail waist.

‘You’ll have more things broken if we don’t get the hell outta here now, Strauss. Come on.’

‘I see… you didn’t lose… your sense of humor.’

‘Jesus, Strauss. Now is not the time for witty comebacks.’

Strauss didn’t comment on the irony of his answer as they stepped over the body and headed toward the stairs. He was looking down, obviously fighting his suffering. Arthur had no idea how he was going to get him safely to the docks in this state. 

He abruptly stood still on their way down when he heard the door of the building being opened, and Strauss raised his head anxiously. Arthur pushed him against the wall and placed his hand on his mouth to muffle his cry of pain. 

‘Hey, Johns! Time to switch! I bet you can’t take it anym…’

The Pinkerton halted his sentence suddenly as he found himself facing Arthur. He presented him with a complete look of surprise as he recognized his bearded face, lighted by the halo of the electric lamp above the open door: 

‘Morgan?’ 

And, before he could come back to his senses and reach for his revolver, Arthur stabbed him right in the heart, sparing him a slow death. 

‘Sorry, pal,’ he muttered as he lied him down on the ground. He couldn’t let anyone report that he was still alive. Hopefully, that would be the only life he would have to take under these circumstances tonight. 

He turned around to go back to Strauss, but the man was already standing behind him, an arm over his chest, his eyes dark behind his broken glasses as he was staring at the body in front of them.

‘He was the most brutal one.’

Arthur resumed his grip on him wordlessly and took a quick glance in the backyard. Still nobody. He urged them outside and they walked under the pouring rain, as fast as they could, Strauss breathing heavily by his side. They had almost made it to the archway when a voice, muffled by the sound of drops onto cobblestones, called behind them:

‘Hey, you! Both of you! Stop!’

Arthur closed his eyes as he complied. They didn’t have time for this. He inhaled deeply, and in one swift motion, he let go of Strauss, pulled out his knife as he turned around, and threw it at the unfortunate cop behind them. It landed straight into his throat, and he collapsed to the ground with gurgling noises. 

This time, Arthur grabbed Strauss by the arm and forced him to run with him. There were four bodies lying around the police station, two of them dead, and he wasn’t optimistic about their chances of survival once they would be discovered and the alarm would be raised. Which would be soon enough.

The docks weren’t that far, but the sooner they would get there, the better for both of them. As soon as they stepped onto the street, Arthur made them turn right to enter the park, off the sight of the cops probably still standing in front of the police station, oblivious to what was going on behind them.

Arthur whistled for Buell as loudly as he could as he kept pushing them forward. They ran alongside the small lake, its surface wildly rippling under thousands of heavy water drops, and he let out a sigh of relief as he finally saw his trusted horse gallop toward them. Once at their level, Arthur mounted him, helped Strauss to do the same, and made Buell go back to the docks. They crossed the railroad tracks and rode onto the wooden planks, paying no attention to the offended night workers, so they could faster reach the boat Arthur had seen arrive the day before. Luck was obviously on their side: it was still there. 

Behind him, Strauss was now gasping in pain. Arthur helped him dismount and sit down against a crate under an awning, and he handed him his canteen before going to the poor guard standing by the pontoon under the rain. He collected himself before asking, almost yelling to cover the raging sound of thunder:

‘Is this boat going to New York?’ 

‘Yes, sir!’

‘When is it leaving?’

‘In an hour, sir!’

‘Good.’

Arthur rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a thick money-clip. He ostentatiously counted the bills in front of the guard, who was now watching him with growing curiosity.

‘Look, mister,’ Arthur said, closed to his ear, as he placed a firm hand on the other man’s shoulder and nodded toward Strauss, ‘my friend here really needs to get on that boat to New York. He also really needs a doctor. Do you have any doctor aboard?’

The eyes of the guard were glued to the money between Arthur’s fingers.

‘Yes, I think we do.’

‘Great. There’s one last thing that my friend really needs: privacy. From the law, any kind of law. Do you think you can give him all that?’

The guard looked up and was confronted to Arthur’s hard stare. He swallowed and nodded wordlessly. Arthur gave him his most wicked smile, one he hadn’t flashed in a long time, and slipped the money-clip into the guard’s hand.

‘Thank you kindly.’

Then, he squeezed the man’s shoulder strongly and tapped his index finger on his own temple as he added in a low rumble: 

‘Just so you know: I have a good memory. And I’m gonna remember your face. So, no funny business. Alright?’

‘Y… Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’

He patted the trembling guard and went back to Strauss, who was probing carefully at his chest. He raised his bruised face when Arthur approached him.

‘I didn’t say anything, Mr. Morgan.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Arthur said as he hastily helped him to get on his feet. 'Come on, now, you're going back to the big city.'

Strauss winced as he stood up, then stared at him, genuine confusion in his eyes.

‘Why are you doing this, Mr. Morgan?’

Arthur took a glance over his shoulder, distracted. Despite the heavy rain, he was sure he could hear whistles being blown in the distance.

‘You know I didn’t approve of your methods, but that don’t mean you deserved what you was going through.’

Strauss didn’t say anything for a while, still breathing with difficulty, a far-off look on his face. Arthur was about to urge him to the boat when the small man leaned toward him and murmured:

‘I saw Mr. Van der Linde, two months ago.’

It was as if all the air had left Arthur’s lungs. He had to breathe in deeply before being able to ask him:

‘Where?’

‘In the forest, near Rhodes. He asked me… if I knew anything about you. Or John, or Micah. I didn’t... He was acting very weird, Mr. Morgan.’

Arthur clenched his teeth and closed his eyes. He had no doubt that last night at Beaver Hollow had been the final straw regarding his ex-mentor’s sanity. But where Dutch was concerned, there were too many different feelings Arthur had bottled up. He really didn’t want to discuss this right now, and they didn’t have the time for it anyway.

He remained silent as he led him to the boat. Once he had passed the guard, who was desperately trying to look anywhere but at Arthur, Strauss turned around and stared at him again.

‘Thank you, Mr. Morgan!’ he shouted, to cover the uninterrupted sound of the rain. ‘For saving my life!’ 

Arthur’s throat tightened and, once again, he didn’t reply, just waved at him. Once Strauss disappeared onto the deck, he ran back to Buell and they bolted away, as fast as lightening - away from Saint Denis, from its unbearable atmosphere, from the new mess he had just created there. And, hopefully, away from his memories of that dreadful couple of days.

***

[Arthur’s journal]

 _‘I finally broke Leopold Strauss out of custody and sent him back to New York. It went as smoothly as possible, and Ross wasn’t even there. The bastard hadn’t lied: Strauss was in a pretty bad shape. But at least he’s gonna be safe now, or so I hope._  
_I also hope everything went well for Mary-Beth. But I trust her to pull this off – she’s a smart woman.'_

[a sketch of a Schofield Revolver pressed against the back of a human neck]

_'Dutch is still alive, somewhere. After all this, I still don’t know how I feel about him. How can I hate the man that taught me how to read and appreciate the world as it is? How can I love the man that turned me into a murderer and left me for dead? It’s like he’s holding me back – or I can’t let him go.’_


	21. Labor of Love – I

Arthur was quite tense as he crossed the Upper Montana River and entered the Great Plains. According to John, ‘there was no trouble’; but what happened the last weeks had reminded him that there was no such thing as too many precautions. He tilted his hat to hide his face from the travelers he came across and spurred Buell toward the location he had been told by a feller on the road, pointedly avoiding the path to Blackwater. 

The summer sun was as relentless here as it was in Saint Denis, but at least the atmosphere was dry. Arthur’s heart tightened in his chest as he rode along a large herd of buffaloes, his thoughts immediately drifting to how Albert would have been delighted if he had been by his side. If they hadn’t yelled those things at each other. If he hadn’t left his apartment so abruptly. 

Since the whole business with Strauss, Arthur hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on their fight and its aftermath, and he still didn’t feel ready to do so. 

He tried to distract himself with the fact that the photographer would have certainly ended trampled, had he been here with him – but his dark sense of humor wasn’t really helping.

However, a genuine smile stretched his lips when he arrived at Beecher’s Hope half an hour later: John and Charles were there, carrying heavy wooden planks, while Uncle was sleeping against a pile of it. 

The sound of Buell’s hooves made the working men turn their head toward him, and they both dropped the plank when they saw who was approaching them, startling the older man awake, before coming to greet him. 

John pulled him into a tight hug as soon as his brother’s feet touched the ground:

‘What a nice surprise!’

Arthur returned the embrace tightly, before Charles clasped a strong hand on his back:

‘It’s good to see you, Arthur.’

He kept smiling as he looked at the familiar faces of his friend. Despite the circumstances, he was glad to see them again. Grateful, even. 

It was then Uncle’s turn to come to him, and he opened his arms wide as he exclaimed:

‘Arthur Morgan! They told me you was still alive, but I had to see it with my own eyes to believe it! You’re one tough son of a bitch, ain’t you?’

Arthur rolled his eyes but couldn’t get rid of his grin.

‘Ah, Uncle, how I did _not_ miss you.’

‘C’mere, you fool.’

Once again, Arthur was pulled into a tight embrace, and he returned it heartily. Then, John squeezed his shoulder and nodded toward a small fire nearby. 

‘Come on,’ he said, before glaring pointedly at Uncle, ‘let’s take a break.’ 

Arthur observed the foundations of what he guessed was John’s future house as he followed the small group.

‘So, how are you?’

‘Let’s sit, first,’ he recommended, and the three other men cast him questioning glances but did as they were told.

Arthur sat with them and thanked Charles for the cup of coffee he handed him. He took a sip before looking at the faces of his friends again, and finally declared:

‘The Pinkertons had Strauss in custody in Saint Denis. Mary-Beth helped me to break him out and I put him on a boat to New York. He must have arrived by now.’

‘Wait… Say that again?’

Arthur then proceeded to explain to them in details how they both organized the rescue mission and how, all in all, it went mostly according to plan. He clarified that he was still waiting to hear from Mary-Beth, and that he had taken all the necessary precautions before coming here, obviously avoiding leading the Pinkertons to his brother’s home. He kept to himself the part about Dutch, though: he didn’t want to upset John right away. 

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

Charles didn’t seem as appreciative of Arthur’s prowess as Uncle was, and it transpired through the incredulous tone of his voice:

‘You really went all by yourself into a police station full of cops in the most crowded city of the state to free Strauss, of all people, from Pinkerton custody?’

Arthur winced: when he put it that way, it sure as hell seemed like a foolish thing to do. He began to understand now why Albert had been so upset. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was the residual guilt he had felt toward Strauss that had pushed him to do this. Maybe he had a bigger white knight syndrome than he thought. 

‘I didn’t go _into_ the police station, per se, and I wasn’t completely on my own.’

Charles didn’t dignify his pathetic attempt to defend himself with a reply, and Arthur brought his cup to his lips to avoid the intense gaze of his friend on him. John came to his rescue as he put a hand on his shoulder and said:

‘You did a good thing by coming here, Arthur. You can stay as long as you need.’ 

‘Thanks, John. I’ll be happy to help,’ he answered truthfully as he nodded toward the building site behind them.

His brother smiled at him before lighting a cigarette. His next question made him froze:

‘What about Albert?’

He closed his eyes when Uncle jumped right in:

‘Albert? Who’s Albert?’

Arthur sighed deeply; he had hoped to avoid this subject as long as possible. But before he could elaborate a lie to dodge more intrusive questions, Charles, who was still looking at him, spoke:

‘Arthur’s special friend.’

Uncle almost choked on his whiskey, and Arthur went from a shock stare directed at Charles to a dark glare thrown at his brother:

‘Well, thank you very much, John.’ 

The younger man immediately raised his hands in front of him to protest, his cigarette dangling from his mouth.

‘I didn’t tell nothing!’

‘That’s true, Arthur, he didn’t,’ Charles said tranquilly. ‘I just figured.’

Arthur scowled at his friend but remained quiet. Charles was apparently now enjoying himself, if the lopsided grin that had appeared on his face was any indication.

‘It was the only name I’ve never heard of among the ones you kept repeating while you were feverish, last winter. And that night we got drunk, before we went to see the Marstons? You told me he was the ‘best man’ you knew.’

It always had something to do with the damn liquor. Arthur smacked his brother on the back of his head as soon as he heard him snicker, then said in a firm voice:

‘Albert’s still in Saint Denis and I ain’t gonna go back there anytime soon.’ 

Sensing that it was a sensitive topic, the other men dropped it – except Uncle, of course, who went on relentlessly:

‘And here I thought you was a heartless fool! Albert’s a man’s name, right? I didn’t know you was so open-minded, Arthur Morgan!’

The two brothers answered him the same thing at the same time, pinning him under their glare:

‘Shut up, Uncle.’

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of the entrance of Beecher’s Hope, the name of the ranch scribbled underneath it]

_‘I’m back living with John, Charles and Uncle. Feels like old times, when we was fooling around in the West. Except now, we’re here to build a permanent home for John’s family. I can see how down he is because of Abigail’s absence. I already miss Albert like hell, so I can only imagine what he’s going through._  
_I hope she and Jack will come back to him soon._  
_I hope Albert will forgive me, someday.’_

***

Arthur woke up with a start at the imaginary sound of a revolver being shot. He just had that same nightmare again, Dutch’s voice still ringing in his ears and Albert’s awful words engraved in his mind.

He panted heavily as he looked around him, his hands gripping his blanket tightly. Charles and Uncle were fast asleep, but he could see John seated by the fire, his shoulders hunched. He swiped the sweat from his forehead and stood up to join his brother.

When he sat on a crate next to John, the younger man glanced at him then wordlessly handed him the bottle of whiskey he was holding. Arthur huffed as he grabbed it and took a swig.

‘Can’t sleep?’

He simply nodded. John sighed as he rubbed both of his hands over his face.

‘Me neither. I keep thinking that I’m doing this for nothing, that I pushed the limits too far this time and lost Abigail and Jack for good.’

‘It ain’t for nothing: in any case, you’ll still have Uncle by your side.’

John shoved him, almost sending him to the ground as he did so.

‘Fuck you, Morgan.’

Arthur readjusted himself on the crate and handed him back the bottle with a smirk. John snatched it from his hand but an amused smile appeared on his own lips nonetheless. For a moment, Arthur observed his brother’s tired face lighted by the flickering flames in front of him.

‘They’ll come back to you, John. Despite everything, Abigail loves you, very much, and I know Jack looks up to you.’

What John did to them a few years back was left unsaid, because Arthur knew John would regret this for the rest of his life, and because he had reminded him of it enough before their lives fell apart in an entirely different way. He was done resenting John for his actions; if a man like himself deserved a second chance, then why not his brother?

‘I think that all she wants from you is a home,’ Arthur went on as he gestured at the foundations behind them, ‘a safe place to raise Jack and grow old with you. And you did, John: you bought a land and you’re building a house on it. I mean, come on, you even took a loan at a fucking bank for this.’

John snorted at his own words being repeated to him, before tearing his eyes away from the fire and settling them on his brother. He observed him quietly for a moment, then reached to squeeze his arm.

‘Thanks, Arthur. I’m glad you’re here with us, for this.’

‘Me too, John.’

Even if the main purpose of his visit was of an entirely different kind, deep down, he was grateful that his choices had led him on a path where he was able to help his brother to forge himself a home.

John took another swig from the bottle as Arthur went to pick up a pack of cigarettes from his satchel. When he came back, they both put one to their lips and lighted them with a branch from the fire. They resumed their contemplation of it for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Then, John finally asked him:

‘What about you?’

Such a small question, for such a long and complicated answer. Arthur decided to keep to himself the whole matter with Albert: there was no need to add another heartbreak to the conversation. Instead, he chose to speak about another person that was also occupying his thoughts, night and day.

‘Strauss told me he’d seen Dutch, a couple of months ago.’

As he had predicted, he saw John clench his jaw, hard.

‘Where?’

‘Near Rhodes.’

‘Good. I prefer him far away from me. I’d even prefer him dead, but I guess I can’t have everything.’ 

Arthur studied the angry lines of his brother’s face for a moment, then asked in a careful voice:

‘Do you, really?’

‘Are you seriously asking me this, Arthur? The son of a bitch left us to die, twice in my case!’

John winced at his own outburst and glanced over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t woken up the other men. Then, he turned to him once more, and there was blatant confusion in his dark eyes.

‘Why are you not mad about this, Arthur?’

Arthur took a deep drag and exhaled it slowly before answering:

‘Believe me, I am. But he’d become fully crazed by that time, John. The family he’d had for years was falling apart, his lifetime companion had been shot in front of him…’

‘All his fucking doing.’

‘And Micah’s doing. Especially Micah’s fucking doing.’

John threw away his cigarette into the fire and stared at it until it was entirely consumed. Then, he faced his brother again, confusion replaced by concern.

‘Why are you stirring that shit up, Arthur?’

That was an excellent question. He pinched his cigarette stub between his thumb and his index finger, absorbed by his own gesture, avoiding meeting his brother’s eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ he finally mumbled, head still low. ‘I guess I just wanna understand what went so wrong. I wish I could… I wish I could talk to him.’

‘Don’t even start to think about this, Arthur,’ John replied immediately. ‘And let this go. Believe me: you need to let this go if you wanna build a new life for yourself. Dutch and Micah could be forming another gang out there, I couldn’t give a fuck – and so should you.’

The strong hand that landed on his shoulder made him look up to John, who was scrutinizing his face. 

‘As you said to me last spring: _‘What happened happened, there ain’t nothing to regret.’_ ’

Arthur huffed.

‘I sound like a patronizing son of a bitch.’

‘You sound like a wise son of a bitch, which you are.’

John didn’t hide his smirk as he stood up, pulling him up on his feet with him.

‘Come on, let’s try to get some sleep. We still got a lot of work to do.’

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of the foundations of the house]  
___

[a sketch of John and Charles hammering nails on a floorboard]  
___

[a sketch of a lone stone chimney]  
___

 _‘Finally got a letter from Mary-Beth – she’s okay. Played them cops like a fiddle, and they didn’t even recognize her in the streets afterward. I’ll buy her a drink ~~next time I’ll be in Saint Denis~~ someday.’_  
___

[a sketch of Uncle sleeping against a tree trunk]  
___

[a sketch of the wooden frame of the house]

***

During the day, Arthur would hammer nails, carry planks, and lift heavy wood frames. During the night, and despite his talk with his brother, he would wake up with his own heart hammering in his chest, carrying a sense of threat, guilt heavy on his shoulders.

From dawn to dusk, under the hard sun or the pouring rain, they all pulled their weight relentlessly. It was exhausting and repetitive, but it helped Arthur to stay away from the dark places of his mind. In addition, despite Uncle and John’s incessant bickering, he realized how much he had missed this: to be surrounded by shouts and laughs and conversations – by life. 

When Arthur was having a moment of respite, he would use it to take a nap or draw their progress on the house in his journal. Anything to keep his mind busy and away from Albert. There was no use thinking about him as long as he wasn’t able to see him.

But it turned out to be a poor strategy: first; the man kept haunting his dreams; second, not writing or talking about him was definitely not improving his temper. 

Charles had subtly tried to make him open up to him, by offering him to go hunting in Tall Trees or riding through the Great Plains – but to no avail. For John’s part, between the absence of his family and his need to repay his loan, he was too caught up in his own worries to be bothered by anything else. As for Uncle, despite his vain and constant attempts to lighten the mood, he was still true to his annoying self and ended up getting on Arthur’s nerves too. 

By the end of July, Arthur had earned the title of ‘the sourest of the whining brothers’.

***

The very first morning of August, Uncle came back alarmed from running an errand in Blackwater. He dismounted his horse and walked up to John, waving his hands in the air.

‘They issued a new bounty for one of them Skinner Brothers! They’d done something terrible again!’

John took out the nails from between his lips to tell him in a soothing voice:

‘Calm down, Uncle. We’re safe, here.’

Arthur, who had watched the whole exchange, confused, stood up from his work at the bottom of one of the house’s walls.

‘Skinner Brothers?’

John sighed as he looked at Uncle going away to sit on a crate and calm himself down. 

‘Yeah. Real nasty people, kind of like the Murfree brood.’

Arthur winced as the vivid memory of his last encounter with them came back to him.

‘They attacked us when we were bringing back the parts for the house here. Charles had hired two men to help us and they butchered one of them.’

Arthur observed his brother resuming his work on the wall. After a moment of silent consideration, he asked:

‘What about the law?’

John snorted as he violently hammered a nail into the wood.

‘It’s just like the Murfrees: they don’t do nothing. Just issuing bounties.’ 

Arthur fell silent again. He didn’t like that. Knowing that this kind of people were looming around, a potential threat for the Marston’s, was unsettling. 

He was already a million miles away, thinking about what could be done to protect them, when he abruptly halted his train of thought. Once again, he found himself thinking about what he could do, including risking his own life, to save his friends. And if it was something that he didn’t want to question, as a part of himself, it suddenly brought him back to his last conversations with Albert. 

The realization hit him like a train: from the moment he couldn’t have saved the life of the ones he loved, of his own son, he had been unable to completely rise again. He understood now that, to his own eyes, everyone mattered but him. Therefore, it was no wonder he had been incapable to consider something for himself for so long. Or someone.

Arthur slumped against the unfinished wall and slid to the ground, before taking his head between his hands. A few seconds later, he felt John’s hand squeeze his shoulder, then heard him walking away. If he surely didn’t know what caused him this reaction, he had accurately sensed that his brother needed some privacy. And Arthur did: after all those days of exhausting himself and living in denial, he finally let his own reality come crashing down on him. 

He waited for John to be far enough, before breaking into silent tears.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of the house, almost entirely built]  
___

[a new attempt to sketch Albert sleeping in his apartment in Saint Denis]

_‘Maybe I lost the best thing I had in this new life. The best man I know. The person I love the most in this whole crazy fucking world.  
After all, I’ve never been capable to keep close the ones I hold dear.’_

***

The roof was the last significant part of the house to work on, and the moody atmosphere that had been floating around lately was starting to wear off, replaced with excitement. Soon, they would be able to witness the result of their hard work, and hopefully what would become the Marston’s home.

With this in mind, Arthur was so engrossed in fixing the tiles that he didn’t notice the man riding into Beecher’s Hope. He only raised his head from his work, grunting, when he heard Uncle call for him:

‘Arthur! There’s a fancy feller here asking for you!’ 

Arthur’s eyes settled on the person that was looking up at him, squinting against the bright sun. When their gazes met, said person waved at him shyly and Arthur nearly fell off the roof.

Albert.

Albert was there.


	22. Labor of Love – II

Arthur scrambled down the ladder, and tossed away his working gloves as he marched up to Albert, who had dismounted Llamrei and was shifting his weight from one foot to the other nervously. He looked worn out, with dark circles under his eyes and his beard not as trimmed as it usually was. 

His eyes grew wide as he saw Arthur approaching him in long strides, his face unreadable, and he started to blabber automatically as a defensive stance, wringing his hands in front of him:

‘H… Hello, Arthur. I’m so sorry to… to barge in on you like this, here, at your brother’s ranch of all places, but I… I would very much like to talk to you, if you can spare me a mome…’

Arthur wordlessly grabbed Albert’s head between his hands and kissed him fiercely, interrupting his stream of words and knocking both their hats off as he did. The pressure of his lips against his helped him to grasp the fact that it was not a dream, and that Albert was really there, right in front of him. He heard whistles behind him, no doubt to whom they belonged to; but he couldn’t care less, as Albert quickly recovered from his surprise and gripped his shirt to draw him closer. 

After a moment, they both pulled back, and Albert’s wild eyes roamed over his face. Breathless, he murmured:

‘I was so afraid you’d still be mad at me…’

Arthur’s chest tightened at his words, and he sighed as he leaned his forehead against Albert’s.

‘I was afraid of the same thing,’ he confessed, his voice low. ‘But you came. While I was driving myself crazy here, you crossed the entire country to see me. Jesus, Al…’

Arthur pulled away again, the realization of what Albert did dawning on him, and he drank in the sight of the man standing in front of him.

‘I love you so fucking much,’ he blurted out.

For a moment, Albert stood still, shocked, before a blinding smile blossomed on his lips. He placed his hand on Arthur’s cheek and was about to reply something, when Uncle called loudly behind them:

‘Well, boys, this is all very nice, but we still got work to do here!’

Both John and Charles shouted an indignant ‘Uncle!’, as Arthur turned around to glare at him.

‘Are you _kidding me_?’

‘Let me help you,’ then said the voice that had been haunting his dreams, in a very different tone from the soft one he had just heard, behind him.

Arthur faced Albert again, confused.

‘Albert, you don’t have to…’

‘Please, Arthur. It would be my pleasure.’

Arthur silently observed the genuine expression of his face, then nodded. He took care of Llamrei while Albert introduced himself to the men he hadn’t met yet, and exchanged a warm handshake with John. Then, he put his hat back on his head, rolled up his sleeves and got to work with them. 

All afternoon, from his own labor on the roof, Arthur watched him put the finishing touches and clean the place with Uncle and Charles, all the while effortlessly being his adorable self and making small talks with them. Every time their eyes met, the photographer was giving him a small smile, and he was returning it right back. He knew they still had things to discuss, but the single knowledge that Albert had come all the way from Saint Denis to talk with him left him giddy. Plus the fact that he had volunteered to help them as soon as he had arrived here. Arthur really hoped they would be able to fix whatever there was between them, because he wanted _this_ : for Albert to meet his friends, to engage with them, to share their meals and activities – for him to be a more significant part of his life. 

***

At the end of the day, the sun was finally settling down behind Tall Trees, leaving them all sweating and drained. Arthur climbed down from the roof, dropped his hammer, his gloves and his hat on a crate and stared straight into Albert’s eyes:

‘Interested in a dive into the nearby river?’

Albert took off his hat, put it next to Arthur’s, and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he answered:

‘God, yes.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Charles throwing a threatening glare at Uncle, who kept his mouth shut. John barely paid any attention to them, as he kept hammering nails onto the roof relentlessly. 

Arthur grabbed two towels from their makeshift camp and led them to the Upper Montana River, outside Beecher’s Hope. Neither of them seemed ready to launch the conversation that was awaiting them, as they walked to their destination in an unusual silence, save for the sound of birds chirping around them with the last rays of sunshine. 

They went down the small hill to the river bank, hid behind some trees to have some privacy, and Arthur unbuckled his gun belt, pulled out his boots and started to strip down. When he realized he was only hearing the rustling of his own clothes, he turned around and saw that Albert was staring at him, his face flushed – because of the residual heat or what he was witnessing, he couldn’t be sure. When Albert caught Arthur’s eyes on him, he cleared his throat and started to nervously unbutton his vest. 

Despite his own nervousness, Arthur felt bold enough to ask: 

‘Can I help you with anything, here, Mr. Mason?’

Albert’s fingers froze mid-air, and he watched them intensely for a moment, before raising his head to look around. Since there was no one in sight, he replied in a stammering voice that betrayed his agitation:

‘If… if you don’t mind.’

Arthur approached him and took it upon himself to start undressing the man, as he had done numerous times before, although in very different situations. He could feel Albert’s gaze on his face and his breath a ghost of a caress on his lips, as he took his time opening the last buttons of his vest, before doing the same thing for his shirt. Then, he slowly unrolled his sleeves, brushing his fingers over his arms as he did so, and he felt Albert shivered. Almost certain now that he wasn’t going to be rejected, he leaned forward to help him to remove his clothes and used this opportunity to plant a kiss on his neck, right under his left ear. He heard Albert sucked in a breath before murmuring:

‘You’re not playing fair, Mr. Morgan.’

‘All’s fair in love and war,’ Arthur replied, distracted, as he dived in for another kiss, this time where he could see the quick pulse of Albert’s heart in his throat.

He was interrupted in his attempt by the firm grasp of the photographer’s hands on his shoulders.

‘I don’t want to be at war with you, Arthur. Not ever again.’

Arthur pulled away, slowly, and Albert let go of him. There was desperation in his eyes, and Arthur’s heart cracked a little, as he was finally confronted with his lover’s distress. Even after weeks spent working uninterruptedly at Beecher’s Hope with his friends, he could still hear in his head the words they had thrown at each other, and the tone of their voices as they had done so that terrible morning. He could only guess Albert’s last month hadn’t been so swell, either. 

It was Arthur’s turn to put his hands on his lover’s shoulders, as he was finally able to apologize:

‘Me neither, Albert. I’m sorry for what happened back there. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. It wasn’t fair.’

‘And I shouldn’t have told you all this. I’m sorry, too. I was… I was afraid to lose you.’

Albert sank down to the ground and absentmindedly picked up a stone to fidget with it. Arthur sat down next to him, desperate to wipe the sad look off his face; but he stood still and waited patiently for the photographer to speak his mind. His next words were pronounced in a low voice:

‘There is something you need to know about me, Arthur. People like me… We don’t tend to get steady relationships. It’s too dangerous, for both parties. But you, my dear Arthur…’

Albert gestured between them, not quite meeting his eyes. 

‘You never questioned this, not once. You just went along with it, true to your feelings, honest and loyal, as you always are. Before you, I never had the chance to experience this. What we share is so unique, invaluable…’

He paused for a moment, obviously overwhelmed, and as usual when Albert was starting one of his trademark rant about their relationship, it left Arthur gasping for breath, chocked by the strong feelings he had for the man. He was unable to express his love as eloquently as Albert did, but he genuinely hoped it was showing when his lover finally looked at him with shining eyes.

‘Twice, I thought you were gone, Arthur. And those two times, we weren’t involved. When you told me that day that you were going to break free a ghost of your past, I simply lost it. I was so afraid to lose you, for real this time, that I didn’t realize I was driving you away.’

Arthur finally reached to place a comforting hand over his.

‘You didn’t drive me away, Al. I left you. And I still blame myself for it.’

The photographer let go off the stone to cover his hand with his other one.

‘And I still blame myself for how I reacted,’ he replied, his voice even lower.

‘I understand, Albert. You know where I come from, and you know… You know that I’m still trying to figure out my place in all this.’

There was so much that could be said about that issue, but it could wait until later. One step at a time.

There was contrition in Albert’s tone when he replied:

‘I know, Arthur. And I won’t pressure you, ever again. I don’t want to become one of the many burdens you are already shouldering.’

Arthur frowned at this. He hadn’t thought Albert would read their argument like that, and that was upsetting. He squeezed the hand he was still holding to convey his reassurance: 

‘You’re far from being a burden, Albert. If anything, you’re helping me to carry them. Without you, I…’

The sudden lump that formed in his throat forced him to stop. He breathed deeply before choosing a different path:

‘I get that you’re afraid, and if I can’t guarantee you anything about what comes next, I can promise you that I’ll be careful.’

When Albert didn’t say anything, fear seized Arthur, and he found himself breathless again as he added:

‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you more than this, Al…’

Silent tears finally rolled down Albert’s cheeks as the grasp on his hand grew firmer.

‘Oh, Arthur. What you’re offering me is so much more than what I could have ever expected. It’s true that I wish things were different for you, but I know now that it’s also what makes you _you_ , the man I love from the bottom of my heart.’

‘Albert…’

Once again unable to articulate his own feelings, Arthur instinctively got closer to his lover and pulled him into a strong embrace, which Albert returned immediately, without holding anything back. Arthur reveled in the feeling of his skin against his own, at last, and in the smell of his hair he had always found so comforting. He let out a long sigh of relief as he held Albert tighter against him. They were going to be okay.

***

They went back to Beecher’s Hope after dark, both clean and content, conversing lightly under the moonlight. They arrived at the house just as John was climbing down the ladder, a small smile on his lips.

‘John Marston, you have a home!’ Uncle exclaimed as he welcomed him on the ground. 

‘So do you,’ John replied with the slightest hint of joy in the tone of his voice; something they hadn’t heard in a while.

He ignored the ostentatious ‘I know!’ of Uncle as he turned to their other friend: 

‘And you Charles, as long as you’ll stay with us.’ 

Then, he came to Arthur and Albert, standing side by side, and placed his hands on their shoulders:

‘And you two of course, both of you. Whenever you need.’

Caught by surprise with the genuine offer, Albert mumbled a long and embarrassed thank-you, and when Arthur was sure he was finished, he pulled John in for a hug.

‘Now, go write your woman a letter,’ he whispered in his ear as he clasped his back.

‘Stop patronizing me, Morgan,’ John answered as he shoved him, but there was now a large grin on his face as he walked away from them.

Arthur watched him disappear inside his house, then Charles approached them with a smile, and gestured toward the fire:

‘Dinner’s ready, if you want.’

Arthur looked back at Albert, who was still in awe. 

‘Hungry?’

‘Yes, starving.’

***

Propped up on his elbow, on the floorboard of one of the rooms, staring at his lover asleep next to him, Arthur couldn’t help but marvel at the coincidences life was throwing at him sometimes. For weeks, he had lived with the thought that his foolish behavior had caused him to lose Albert; and yet, here he was, spending his very first night in John’s house by his side.

Despite his tiredness, he couldn’t sleep. A part of him wanted to pick up his journal and sketch his lover, but another one wanted to simply lie there, and commit to memory all those tiny details he had been afraid to never be able to contemplate again: his soft features, his slightly crooked nose, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes; then, the brown hair that was covering his pale chest, and the freckles he knew were doting the small of his back; down to the delicate curves of his buttocks, his strong, hairy thighs and his thin calves. Not to forget those long, graceful fingers, presently resting on his flat stomach. 

Tonight, he had taken his sweet time worshiping anew all those parts of his body, and more, with his own lips and hands. For this, he had been rewarded by Albert’s shaky exhales and the sound of his name being murmured, over and over again.

Arthur was pulled out from his reverie when he heard it being murmured once more. His eyes traveled up Albert’s body to meet his gaze.

‘Thought you was asleep.’

‘I can almost hear the wheels turning. Is there something wrong?’

Arthur caught the fleeting flash of fear in Albert’s eyes, no doubt remembering the last night they had spent together. He chased away his own memory of it and leaned down to press a gentle kiss on his shoulder.

‘No, nothing’s wrong. I still can’t believe you came all the way down here, for me.’

Albert turned on his side and placed his hand on his cheek, his thumb caressing the new scar just below his left eye – a permanent memory of Strauss break out.

‘Well, I do love you, Arthur Morgan.’

He let his hand slide down his neck, then his shoulder, before settling on his upper arm, squeezing the muscles under his fingers appreciatively.

‘You know, Ms. Gaskill came by the studio a couple of days ago, to have her portrait taken – she really is a beautiful woman. I think it was a ruse to learn more about me.’

Arthur let out a chuckle, having no doubt about his insight.

‘Was it a success?’

Albert smiled, a far-off look on his face as he was obviously remembering his conversation with Mary-Beth. 

‘In a sense, yes, it was. She highly praised you again, and her words finally decided me to come to you. To see if you would be willing to take back the fool that I am.’

Arthur grinned mischievously. He owed Mary-Beth definitely more than a drink.

‘I hope I convinced you how willing I am to _take you_ back.’

Albert gasped at that and slapped his arm, before falling flat on his back again. Arthur watched with smug self-satisfaction the blush creeping on his face. The photographer pointedly ignored his gaze as he went on: 

‘Unfortunately, I have to go back to Saint Denis tomorrow. I wish I could stay with you and your friends, but I promise Mr. Beliveau I wouldn’t be gone too long.’

‘I understand, Albert.’

He observed his lover, staring at the ceiling with a thoughtful expression for a moment, before turning his face toward him again. Albert opened his mouth, then closed it, and Arthur waited patiently for him to say whatever was on his mind. It came a few minutes later, determined despite the hushed tone, those hazel eyes planted on him:

‘I think I’m going to quit my job.’ 

‘Excuse me?’

‘You were right, Arthur: I’m wasting my talent, there.’

Arthur winced when he heard the harsh words he had thrown at him, a month ago. He did think that Albert should pursue his photography project; but it had to be on his own terms, at his own pace – not because of his stupid outburst.

‘More than anything, I was angry, Albert.’

His lover’s gaze was unwavering. 

‘I know, but it’s the truth. Who am I to judge your life when I’m not even capable to handle my own? I’m such a hypocrite.’

Arthur landed a firm hand on his shoulder, both as a sign of disagreement and comfort.

‘First of all, that ain’t true. Second of all, you shouldn’t rush into anything because of what I said to you. It’s a tough choice; you’ve lived in Saint Denis nearly your whole life…’

‘Bugger Saint Denis!’ Albert exclaimed to cut him, raising on his elbows as he got carried away, before clasping his own hand over his mouth.

Arthur muffled a laugh, and they waited for one of the men on the other side of the wall to yell at them to shut it. When nothing came, Albert went on in a murmur:

‘I wasn’t prepared the first time I went into the wilderness. Since then, _you_ have taught me enough to enable me to try again, hopefully with more success this time. I decided to give myself until next fall. If, by then, I’m still aching to go back out there, I’ll pack my things and leave.’

‘I bet you twenty bucks you will,’ Arthur said, only half-joking. 

‘Deal.’

They pretended to shook on it; but Albert suddenly kept his grip on his hand and looked at him more intensely. He hesitated for a moment, before asking in a low voice: 

‘Arthur, would you… Would you come with me, then?’

Arthur didn’t have to think too long about it. By the end of the summer, he truly hoped Abigail and Jack would be back, and Beecher’s Hope would finally be operational. In that case, he could serenely leave his brother, knowing everything would be alright for them, and go back to his lover – try to chase freedom again, with him. 

He gave the photographer a warm smile as he reached out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. 

‘I’ll come with you, Al, wherever you go. Through hell or high water.’

Albert’s face broke into a wide grin, and he leaned toward Arthur to breath against his lips:

‘Let’s hope it will never come to that.’

Arthur grabbed the back of Albert’s head and pulled him in even closer.

‘Let’s hope, but I know you, Mr. Mason.’

Albert’s huff of feigned indignation was muffled by a kiss.

***

For the first time in weeks, Arthur slept through the night without a single nightmare to disturb his peaceful slumber.

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of Albert floating on his back in the river, his eyes closed, a smile on his lips]

 _‘Albert came back to me. To sort things out. This is how much he loves me._  
_This man will never stop to surprise me. On some levels, I think he’s braver than I’ll ever be. I hope I’ll be able to tell him someday, without making some stupid jokes to cover it, how grateful I am to be the one he had chosen. How lucky I am to have him by my side – hopefully for a long time.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dear readers, I truly hope it was worth the wait!  
> After the 'Strauss incident', I personally indulged myself with the writing of these two last chapters, making Arthur participate in the building of John's house (if anything, _that_ should have been canon, R*, major character death be damned), and giving him and Albert the sweet reunion they deserved.  
> I'll be happy to know what you think of it all!


	23. Necessary Evil

Before leaving, Albert confirmed to Arthur that nothing about Strauss’ escape had been published in The Saint Denis Times. His detention might not have been perfectly legal from the start, so it wasn’t really surprising that nothing about its sudden end had transpired. 

Despite this, they agreed that it was better for a former member of the Van der Linde gang, albeit presumably dead, to still keep away from Saint Denis. There was no reason for anyone to suspect a connection between him and Albert, but it was also better if they kept minimum, and inconspicuous, contact for a while. At least until the end of the summer and Albert’s hypothetical plan for their future. 

There was still work to do in Beecher’s Hope, anyway. A couple of days after Albert’s surprise visit, Arthur was fixing the fence at the entrance of the ranch, when he heard the sound of heavy hooves in the distance. He didn’t need to look at the cavalier when he saw the huge beast that was approaching him. He smiled as he stood up, placed his hammer and gloves in his belt, and tipped his hat to the visitor.

‘Morning, Mrs. Adler.’

Sadie dismounted her horse with a wide grin of her own and came to him.

‘Well, look who’s here! I didn’t know you was at John’s!’

They exchanged a hug, then she looked at him with a raised eyebrow as she asked:

‘Got tired of the quiet and solitary life already?’

Arthur snorted. If his life hadn’t been really solitary, between Charles’ presence and then Albert’s, it certainly wasn’t quiet anymore, thanks to Uncle. 

‘You could say that.’

He quickly explained to her how he had learned about Strauss being in Pinkerton custody, and how he had freed him with Mary-Beth’s help. Once again, he decided to keep to himself the piece of information about Dutch. He was afraid that discussing it out loud would once again stir up his somehow wicked desire to go look for the man.

At the end of his explanations, Sadie silently scrutinized his face for a moment, her own unreadable. Then, she finally said:

‘Well, I guess that explains why you never took me up on that drink.’

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed, as he mumbled an apology, and she playfully clapped a hand on his back.

‘Don’t fret, honey, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to catch up,’ she told him warmly, before adjusting her hat. ‘But first, I need to see my employee.’

When Arthur realized who she was talking about, he burst out laughing, and followed her and her gigantic mount as he wiped the tears from his eyes. In front of the house, the three men were lively arguing, and she interrupted them as she exclaimed: 

‘Hello, John, Charles! How are you?’

They came to hug her, then Uncle approached her with a pout, mimicking her voice:

‘‘Well, hello Uncle, nice to see you!’ ‘Oh, you too!’’

‘Oh, shut up, you old creep,’ she replied fondly, before embracing him too. 

‘What was that about?’ Arthur asked as he nodded toward the house, his eyes traveling over the faces of his friends.

John huffed as he threw his hands in the air.

‘Uncle keeps nagging me about livestock and such.’

‘It’s actually not a bad idea.’

‘Thank you, Charles!’

‘Yeah, it’s not a bad idea at all,’ John replied as he pointed a finger toward Uncle, ‘but that pre-cut barn you told me about is gonna cost a bunch of money, again!’

Sadie chose this moment to step forward and place a hand on the shoulder of the frantic man.

‘I might help you with that, John. I got some work for us.’

‘That’d be great. Let’s talk about this over lunch?’

‘Sure.’

They exchanged a smile, then Sadie finally took a good look at the building in front of her.

‘Congratulations on your ranch, by the way! You can be real proud, John.’

‘Those two helped me a lot,’ he replied as he designated Charles and Arthur, who were still standing by their sides.

Uncle got the innuendo immediately and pouted again.

‘I helped you, too!’

‘Sure,’ Arthur grumbled. ‘You helped us get faster, so we wouldn’t have to hear you complaining about work all day long, you lazy old bastard.’

‘You are a sad man, Arthur Morgan.’

Sadie barely hid her smirk as she followed them all into the house. 

While they ate, Sadie told John about the bounty: a wanted member of the Del Lobo gang, Ramón Cortez, had been spotted alone at Painted Sky. She tried to talk Arthur into it, but he declined once again, trusted them to handle it on their own, and still firm on his position regarding bounties. Plus, he didn’t need that kind of money – contrary to his brother. 

An hour later, Sadie, John and Uncle – who had insisted on coming along to ‘negotiate’ – left for the lumberyard, while Charles and Arthur went to assemble a crew to help them with the barn.

***

It took them five days to build the barn entirely. John came back, alone, just as they were putting the finishing touches. He stood in front of it for a moment, bewildered, and Arthur felt warmth fill his chest at his own realization – back in Beaver Hollow, all those months ago, he had never thought he would be able to witness John’s future, let alone be a part of it. He sincerely hoped Abigail and Jack had gotten the letter and would come back soon, so the three of them could enjoy the life they deserved, together.

Then, John thanked them as openly as he was capable of, and Uncle suggested a drink, to celebrate. 

Back in the days, with the gang, to say that Arthur had been a heavy drinker was an understatement. There had been numerous drinking nights (and sometimes days) at saloons of towns they were passing through, which would often end in fisticuffs, then waking up either in a field somewhere or in jail, under the disapproving glare of the local sheriff. 

But the craziest nights they had had been the ones of celebrations, when Dutch would bring an apparently endless number of crates, filled with bottles of beer or whiskey. On those nights, they would all sing, and shout, and laugh, and dance, and do the silliest things they could, all to be forgotten the next day – leaving them with a throbbing headache, but also with a lingering, fuzzy sense of joy.

So, when Uncle showed his talent as he drew a bottle of whiskey out of thin air, by a mutual, implied agreement, they put their mind to reenact one of those crazy nights. They sang, and shouted, and laughed, and danced, and did the silliest things they could.

And if Arthur couldn’t hold his liquor as well as before, that didn’t stop him from enjoying the whole moment, up until he blacked out on the floorboard of his brother’s house.

***

There were two characteristics about Arthur’s sleep: the first one was that he was a light-sleeper, always had been; the second one was that he always got up early. And, as he was growing older, those two things were becoming truer and truer, no matter how much alcohol he had drunk the night before.

Therefore, it was no wonder he woke up with a start when he heard muffled voices outside the house. He cursed under his breath as the pounding in his head increased when he raised it up, and saw that John and Charles were still asleep, both snoring. Uncle, on the other hand, wasn’t there.

Dread settled in his guts as the muffled voices went on, now accompanied by what sounded like a struggle. He grabbed his revolver as he stood up and went to the exit quietly, where he took a peek outside. Then froze.

Uncle, gagged, was restrained by two men, while a third one was aiming a gun at him. They were dragging him toward their horses.

Two things happened simultaneously: fury bubbled up in his chest and rose to his throat, leading to Arthur shouting a loud ‘Hey!’, as he flung the door open. Then, as the men turned toward him, startled, time distinctly slowed down. In his mind’s eye, Arthur aimed for a precise shot on each of their forehead. And, before they were able to use any of their weapons, he raised his own revolver and fired the three shots. The three men dropped dead around a trembling Uncle. 

Arthur rushed to him and, as soon as he took off the gag from his mouth, the old man grabbed his wrist and started to whimper:

‘I was just taking a leak when those animals jumped on me! If you hadn’t…’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Arthur turned around as he heard his friends stumbled out of the door.

‘What happened?’

‘Skinners,’ Charles guessed accurately as he observed the bodies lying around.

Arthur faced his brother and bored his eyes into his. Maybe it was because he was still furious, but the idea that suddenly came to him was compelling. He remembered what they had told him about those Skinner Brothers; then, he thought about Abigail and Jack, who could arrive to the ranch any day now – there was absolutely no way those two separate entities should meet, ever. 

‘We can end this now, John.’

The younger man looked at him, confused. Charles came by his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Arthur’s right. We were lucky he heard anything this time; but they’ll keep coming back.’

They exchanged a glance as John rubbed his chin, pondering the situation. Then, his eyes settled on Uncle, still sat on the ground, and when he leveled them with Arthur’s again, they were full of determination.

‘Okay. Let’s do this. Maybe we can reach some sort of agreement.’

After what he had heard, Arthur highly doubted that, but he couldn’t blame his brother for his willingness to try to do things right.

‘Sure. But I advise you to bring your guns to the negotiation table.’

Charles came back from his quick observation of the perimeter and gestured toward their horses.

‘I think I can track them from here. Let’s go.’

Arthur mounted Buell and checked that his weapons, still carefully stashed in his stallion’s saddle, were loaded and clean, while John went back inside his house to retrieve his own. They left Uncle with a carbine repeater and followed the tracks of the Skinner Brothers, leading them toward Tall Trees. 

They left their horses at the entrance of the forest and used the morning mist to hide, as they progressed silently between the trees, weapons in their hands. They stopped abruptly when a patrol strolled down not far from them, and they distinctly heard one of the men ask: 

‘Why aren’t they back from the ranch, yet?’

Another man sneered back:

‘Maybe they decided to burn it, like I suggested. Maybe they’re enjoying the show and we don’t.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw John on his left tense immediately. 

‘Fucking animals,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

‘Calm down, John. Let’s try to find their camp, before doing anything.’

They let them pass, and followed the path they came from, still close to the ground. A few minutes later, they had to stop a second time and hid behind some tree trunks, as they heard shouts coming from the road. With growing horror, they saw a man being dragged through the dirt, tied up to a wagon.

Arthur didn’t think twice: he ran silently to it, unsheathing his knife on the way, and cut the rope to let the poor man go. He halted his cries for a split second, which alerted the driver – but the man froze as soon as he felt a blade pressed on the side of his throat.

‘Where’s your camp?’

The driver only swallowed, and Arthur pressed the blade further into his skin as he growled:

‘I asked you: where’s your fucking camp?’ 

The man extended a hand to his right. Arthur glanced into the direction indicated, and the driver used his momentary distraction to slap his hand away. The Skinner tried to reach for his pistol but fell backward before his hand reach his holster, an arrow lodged into his forehead. Arthur turned around and faced John, who had his bow raised in front of him and a dark look in his eyes.

‘I thought we was supposed to calm down?’

‘They _are_ fucking animals.’

They waited for Charles to quickly take care of the poor feller that had been dragged, and they crouched down again when they reached some boulders overlooking the Skinners’ morbid camp. They had the higher ground, which was good, if things were to turn ugly. They took cover behind the rocks, and observed the men wandering around downhill. By the look of it, they must have been thirty or so, and even if they weren’t paying any attention to their surroundings, they were all heavily armed. 

Arthur sensed some movements next to him, and he turned his head to watch John pulling out a white handkerchief from his satchel and tying it to his rifle. 

‘John Marston, the peacemaker.’

His brother huffed, focused on the task at hand.

‘Shut up, Morgan.’

Once he was done, he climbed up on the boulder, stood up slowly and started to wave his makeshift white flag, his other hand up in the air. For their part, Arthur and Charles remained lying on their stomach from their observation point, and got their weapons ready, just in case. 

‘Skinners!’ John shouted to the crowd, who looked up suddenly. ‘I’m the owner of Beecher’s Hope, and I’m here to discuss our situation!’

‘Hey, up here! It’s the ranch guy! Kill him!’

John dropped to the ground as bullets and arrows started to whiz around him.

‘Well, that went down real quick!’ he yelled as he slid on the boulder to join them back to their cover.

Arthur allowed himself a snort, before he adjusted his grip on his Rolling Block rifle and looked through the scope. Once again, he switched off anything that wasn’t pure instinct and fighting skills, took a deep breath, exhaled and started shooting. To defend himself and his friends or killed his victims, he didn’t know anymore – but at this point, it didn’t really matter, anyway. 

After a while, he ran out of ammunition and was not able to keep covering John and Charles, who had gotten closer to the fight. He was about to switch to his other rifle and join them down, when a strong blow on the back of his head forced him back to the ground. He cursed loudly as he rolled on his back, and used his right arm to block another blow from a Skinner above him. He kicked the man’s crotch, hard, and the Skinner cried out as he dropped the rock he had been holding. Arthur took advantage of his helplessness to draw his gun and shot him in the head. Blood splattered all over him, but he paid it no attention as he stood up and ran down to help his friends finish off the last Skinners. 

Twenty minutes or so later, the sound of shouts and gunshots vanished, instantly replaced by a deathly silence. The three friends stood still, among too many bodies to count. The familiar smell of blood mingled with powder were floating in the air and, at that moment, the only thing that Arthur wanted was to leave this place and never look back. Apparently, he still had it in him, and he still wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing.

The silence accompanied them on the whole way back to Beecher’s Hope. When they arrived, Uncle rushed to them as soon as they dismounted their horses, nervously clutching the carbine repeater against his chest. 

‘Thank God you’re alive! How did it…’

His eyes landed on the blood staining their shirts, and he didn’t finish his sentence. After another quiet moment, he added:

‘Well, I made coffee, but there’s also whiskey, if you boys need something stronger.’

He went toward the house, and John and Arthur started to follow him, when Charles called for them. They both turned around, and their friend approached them to put his hands on their shoulders. 

‘Either way, it had to be done, we all know that,’ he said in a low voice, staring at them, before his eyes settled on the younger man. ‘We’re gonna be safe here, now. You and your family will be safe, John.’

They all nodded to one another, before entering the house quietly. Arthur winced as he touched the back of his head, and John wordlessly took off his neckerchief to hand it to him. He mumbled a thank you as he sat down on a chair, pressing the cloth to his wound, observing his friends silently drinking their beverage. And, despite the truth behind Charles’ words, despite his own advice to get rid of the threat, it didn’t stop him from feeling unsettled for the rest of the day.

***

[Arthur’s journal – an empty camp in a forest, mist hiding the ground]

 _‘First, the four Murfrees at Robert’s stables; then, the Pinkerton and the cop in the Saint Denis police station; now, a dozen of Skinner Brothers in Tall Trees. For a man who’d vowed to hang up his guns half a year ago, I reckon it’s a goddamn record. Who was I kidding?_  
_At least, I know I’m still able to protect the ones I care about. Don’t know what John would have done on his own if them Skinners had taken away Abigail or Jack, like they nearly did with Uncle. Don’t know what I would do if Albert was threatened like this. I hope I’ll never have to find out.’_

***

During the following days, John and Charles worked on developing Beecher’s Hope’s activities, while Uncle went to Blackwater to look for furniture for the house. For his part, Arthur went back to taming wild horses for his brother’s ranch. This was probably what he was the best at, apart from pulling the trigger. These days, he particularly appreciated the time he was spending with those majestic animals, trying to establish a humble connection with them, this task soothing him after the bloodshed in Tall Trees.

One hot afternoon, he was riding back into Beecher’s Hope, followed by two wild Hungarian Half-bred, when he spotted a young yellow dog coming toward him, yapping joyfully. He dismounted Buell and hitched the three horses to a tree trunk, before crouching down in front of the dog to pet him.

‘Whose good boy are you?’

The dog yapped again, flicking his tail excitedly. Arthur noticed that there was no one outside; but the wagon, Rachel and Charles’ horse were still there. Warily, he went to the house; but let out a sigh of relief when he heard laughter on the other side of the door. He came in, and when he arrived in the living room, where all his friends were gathered, Abigail abruptly stood up from her chair to give him a tight hug. Arthur didn’t fight the smile that spread on his lips.

‘It’s good to finally see you here, Ms. Roberts.’

‘I’m glad to be here. You boys have done something amazing.’

Arthur directed his smile at his brother, whose face was positively radiant.

‘That fool over there, especially. He’d do anything to prove his love to you.’

His strong words, said casually, left Abigail speechless, and she returned to John’s side, as Jack approached Arthur happily.

‘Uncle Arthur!’ he exclaimed as he threw his arms toward him.

Arthur leaned forward to pick him up from the ground. The last time he had seen him, he hadn’t been able to do so; and, since that time, Jack had grown even more. He let out a surprised chuckle as he flinched under the kid’s weight.

‘Hello, Jack! You’re a big boy, now, ain’t you?’

The child laughed as Arthur carefully laid him back to the floor.

‘Have you seen my dog Rufus?’

‘That I did. He seems very nice.’

‘He is!’ he approved vigorously, before turning toward his mother. ‘Can I go play with him?’

Arthur saw Abigail nod, smiling, as her hand squeezed John’s arm around her waist. They both looked so content to be around each other again, and Arthur's heart swelled upon seeing them happily reunited at last. Suddenly, the lingering sensation of discomfort from the last days seemed to vanish from his tense body, and he allowed his own smile to grow wider.

His own happiness was short-lived, however, as John met his gaze and said excitedly:

‘We should throw a welcome party! I’ll get Sadie, and you should invite Albert, too!’

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes to avoid Abigail’s. 

‘Albert?’ she inevitably asked, a sudden interest audible in the tone of her voice. ‘Who’s Albert?’

The answer came in unison, yelled by John, Charles and Uncle:

‘Arthur’s special friend!’

‘Jesus Christ, you really ought to fucking grow up, you bunch of morons.’ 

Despite Jack being outside, Abigail warned him about using this kind of language around her son. Arthur grumbled as he walked away from his cackling friends, choosing at that moment the company of horses over theirs, the brim of his hat covering his blushing face – and, as he did so, he missed the fond smile the young woman directed at him.

***

[Arthur’s letter to Albert]

 _‘Dear Albert,_  
_My brother finally reunited with his wife and son. They want to celebrate, and they asked me to invite you. I found it was a great idea._  
_If you do, too, I’ll be waiting for you at Riggs Station next Sunday – you could take the noon train._  
_I’d be delighted to see you again._  
_Yours,_  
_A.M.’_

***

[Arthur’s journal – a sketch of John and Abigail walking hand in hand toward the viewer, Jack playing with Rufus in front of them, ‘The Marston Family’ scribbled under it]


End file.
